Audacity
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: Only 24%, Colonel? Considering the events of Dramus City in 2550, Emile might need a bit more than that.
1. Chapter 1

AUDACITY

_I wish he would reel his audacity in the field back about 24%. His behavior makes it difficult to field him against insurrectionists; it's hard enough dealing with the stories of UNSC excess manufactured by the civilian media without S-239 providing them with hard evidence of said excess. That being said: It's an odd feeling to be relieved that you are sending your people out against hostile aliens. _

-SPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/NOBLE Performance Reports, citing file N-63732/S-III/A239 (WARNING-ACCESS LOGGED; BYPASS SCHEME "OPEN SESAME" VERIFIED)

**1428 HOURS, 18 MARCH 2550 (UNSC MILITARY CALENDAR)**

**NARROW BAND POINT-TO-POINT TRANSMISSION; ORIGIN: NAVSPECWAR CENTCOM; TERMINATION: SECTION THREE/REACH HIGHCOM/UNSC ARMY/"NOBLE ACTUAL"**

/**TRANSMISSION RECEIVED/FIREWALL PASSED/EMERGENCY DELETION LOGARITHM: STANDBY/**

**TRANSMISSION SEQUENCE; CRUISER DESIGNATION "OSIRIS" (DEPLOYMENT ORDERS SEE ATTACHED FILE); SS PROBE SERIAL F547729R; FERMION RSO/REACH MILITARY COMPLEX, SECTION THREE**

**ENCRYPTION SCHEME: HAMMERHEAD/BETA/FOXTROT (CLASSIFIED HIGH SECURITY-INTRUSIONS TO BE LOGGED)**

**FROM: GENERAL EBENEZER ASHTON, 126TH**** MARINE REGIMENT (CSV ATTACHED)**

**TO: COLONEL URBAN HOLLAND, NAVSPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/COMMANDING**

**SUBJECT: NOBLE TEAM MISSION LOGS/SPARTAN A-239/"NOBLE FOUR" PERFORMANCE/INCIDENT DETAIL**

**CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY, CODE-WORD /-CLASSIFIED- DECRYPTION ERROR/, TOP SECRET (SECTION THREE X-RAY DIRECTIVE)**

**/MESSAGE COMMENCING/**

_Colonel,_

_As I'm sure you are aware, your Special Warfare group "Noble Team" was heavily involved in the civilian riots occurring on the 13/3/2550, in the city of Dramus, planet Esvorl VI. Got the deployment orders, I'm sure-but even ONI doesn't have eyes in the heavens; not ones that see all the way to Reach, anyway. Doubt you've received word of what took place. Thought I'd do you the favour of sending the mission logs and battle reports early. Paperwork's turning out to be a real bitch. Makes me wonder if having Spartans on hand is worth it._

_You asked me, mission prior, to rate and review Noble's team cohesion during the op. Data packets marked LIBERTY, SEVERE and CRYSTAL contain my reports-dig through the encryptions and you'll have them. An AI would go a long way, believe me. Suggest referring to I-MUT-328/B for any problems._

_Rerouting all outsider reports and witnesses through the usual channels. You'll have as much privacy as is possible._

_As an aside, Colonel, that team of yours is really something. And that's not a full-blown compliment. I've worked with Spartans before, during the campaigns on Jericho VII and Draco III, and they were everything I expected. Flawless, up to the mark and ruthless in their execution. These ones, well, I couldn't say the same. Your man S-259 knew his way around it-and that bigger one, George?-but those others were not to my satisfaction. I know that you spooks get a high level of leeway, but there's no point in sending me half-baked goods. I've learned that looking a gift horse in the mouth can be beneficial._

_Confused? Well, take a look at the logs, specifically the ones pertaining to S-239. I won't spoil it, but I'll say this-I hope you enjoy horror stories. We've been dealing with this sort of thing since Section Two went public back in '47, but it was just the media getting themselves into a fuss. Now they've got actual fodder. I don't care about bad press for Spartans-they've probably never even seen a news program-just about how this will affect their usage in the war. Things have been bad enough since that entire ODST platoon was court-martialled, and the last thing we need is limitations on our ability to deal with threats. Genocidal aliens are bad enough._

_Best,_

_E.A._

**/MESSAGE ENDS/**

**/REFERENCING FILES/DATS STREAMS NOTED/PARTIAL REMNANT ARCHIVED/DELETION COMMENCING/**

**0736 hours, 13****th**** of March, 2550 (UNSC Military Calendar)**

**Kappa Indus System, Planet Esvorl IV**

**Dramus City, Halicarna**

The city was burning.

Or so it looked from a distance. Sooty red light illuminated the nighttime scene, casting lurid shadows against the walls and ground. This effect was created by the innumerable spot-fires burning across the metropolis. Some were mere embers-blazing contentedly on the corners of rubbish-choked streets-but others were far bigger. A few, burning on the top floors of office buildings, were getting out of hand. No emergency firefighting drones were responding-the entire grid was down. Cinders cascaded downward like liquid fire. The sky was lit up like a giant Christmas tree, glowing amber with ragged taters of black smoke.

Dropping through the acrid haze were a pair of fast-attack UNSC Falcon dropship, their rotors cutting swathes through the filthy air. The running lights-red and green-flickered fitfully, and brightened as the respective ships angled downward, changing course. Normally, they would have to check in with Dramus' City Aerospace Administration for verification of flight details, security codes and the like-but the rules had changed. Anarchy was the only authority now.

Unless they did their job.

Inside the open-cabin craft, three to each bird, various men (and one woman) sat. They were completely unremarkable, aside from the fact that they were easily larger than any human, wore full-body armor and face-concealing helmets. To any member of the UNSC (and quite a few of the civilian population), there was no mistaking them.

Spartans.

As the Falcon hit an air pocket, Commander Carter-A259, Noble One and team leader, made his final preparations. His sidearm, a powerful M6G pistol, was already secured, but he wanted to check his rifle for any problems. A Designated Marksman Rifle, it combined power with accuracy and was a versatile weapon. Carter refused to run an op without one. He'd heard that it was being slowly replaced by a new weapon, the Battle Rifle, but that was a Navy thing as far as he was concerned. He'd stick with what he knew.

Now that that done, he performed a standard armor diagnostic. His HUD came to life, glowing a pale blue. Ammunition and grenade counters, biosigns, motion tracker and targeting reticule snapped to life, standing out in his vision. And in the top right-hand corner, a small blinking icon-signaling a recent transmission. Final instructions from Colonel Holland, most likely. He'd get to that in a moment. Next, he wanted to check his newest armor component-the Integrated Suit Lockdown Mechanism, or simply, "armor lock." It was designed to channel all of the power inside his suit into a current that would occupy his armor plating, rendering him invulnerable. The only catch was that the electric current immobilised his suit's motors. Only time would tell if the trade-off was worth it.

Recent forays into captured Covenant tech had yielded breakthroughs in methods of harnessing power within smaller units with independent power sources, the MJOLNIR armor they had been issued being an example. A day before they'd been deployed from Reach, new tech had arrived from the higher-ups at ONI Research and Development. New armor components to be swapped out, including what were colloquially named "armor abilities." The entire squad had received them. Jorge-052, the heavy weapons man and the lone class-two on the team, shared the armor lock, but there had been others. A component that momentarily disabled the movement inhibitors, and small jet-packs that could be implanted into their suits. It would be interesting to see how they would work.

Sure enough, the icon for his armor lock AA-a small man in a crouch-was pulsing a cool blue. It was good to go. Satisfied, he turned his head to survey the other members of Noble Team. Inside his particular Falcon were Jorge-052 and Thom-A293. The pair of bulky, armored men were busy making their own methodical preparations. Jorge was loading ammo belts into his M247H machine gun, while Thom was inspecting his new jetpack.

A Spartan-II, Chief Warrant Officer Jorge had come to them in 2544 after Yuri-A162, an alumnus of Carter's old unit Team Hydra, had been killed by energy mortars on Inolius. At first, he had been equal parts resentful and reverent of the Reach-born Spartan, a man with far more experience than him and with every right to question his authority. Instead, Carter found him to be quiet, soft-spoken and devoted to Noble Team. That didn't stop him from pounding the crap out of any Covenant that crossed their path. He was the definition of a "gentle giant", easily capable of interacting with marines and civilians. Carter had wondered what would happen when Jorge found out about the existence of other Spartan classes, but the big man had been unconcerned. "More of us the better, I say, "he had said.

Warrant Officer Thom, apart from his second-in-command Catherine "Kat" B-320, was the last surviving member of the original team. Whereas Carter was no-nonsense, and Kat could be remote-cold, even-Thom was always laughing and joking. One moment he would be setting charges to trigger a firestorm of metal, the next he would be taping Jorge's gun shut. A few times he would have to be pulled back into line, but Thom would stand for any member of Noble until he fell. However, he was-and Carter winced at the thought-rather naïve for a Spartan. Thom believed that the war was simply human versus alien, red versus blue. It wasn't like that at all, but he wouldn't see sense, no matter how many counterinsurgency ops they ran.

Carter turned his gaze to the right, where the second Falcon was flying. Its whirring rotors created a gale that blew right into their cockpit. It was a good thing they were wearing harnesses on this mission. Like their aircraft, the Falcon carried three Spartans.

Warrant Officer Jun-A266, a native of the glassed New Harmony, was busy making minute adjustments to his prized SRS99, turning knobs and fiddling with levers. Carter had seen snipers zero their instruments before, but Jun took it to extremes. He was like a fierce terrier around his rifle-when Carter had ordered him to "step on it" during a hit-mission on a URF leader, the dome-headed Spartan had shot him an icy look and told him to mind his own business. Normally, he wouldn't brook that kind of behaviour, but with a 93% kill rating-in a _Spartan _unit-it was a small price to pay. However, Carter had seen one of Jun's psychiatric evaluation reports-the author had stated the Spartan "had an unhealthy emotional detachment in regards to the consequences of his actions." Carter would have liked to give Jun the benefit of the doubt, but he'd only been on the team for six years-and his demeanor hadn't noticeably improved.

Clad in midnight blue armor, Lieutenant Commander Kat-B320 was trying to interface with the local marine COM channels via a remote transceiver. Carter imagined that her aquiline, sharply angled face was screwed up in concentration under her helmet. In all his years of soldiering, he had never met a more stubborn individual when it came to cryptanalysis and intel. Still, Carter couldn't help but have a soft spot for Kat, who had been fiercely loyal to him and the team since she arrived. The woman would give her right arm for the sake of the mission, and he was well able to appreciate such an attitude. Deadly with a pistol, her razor-honed mind was even deadlier.

Carter's gaze swept to the final occupant of the second Falcon. His feet were up against the bracing block between the seats, and his arms were folded. Unlike the other Spartans, his armor was a drab steel grey and was not covered with attachments or utilities. There were a few odd parts, though. An Assault/Sapper chest piece, complete with grenade pockets and bandolier, encompassed his middle. His right shoulder pauldron was a rusty red colour, and sheathed upon it was a wicked-looking kukri knife. To complete this barbaric scene, his helmet-a standard EVA-had carved into it a monstrous skull visage.

It could be nobody else, of course, but Emile-A239.

Emile had come to them late in '47, when Marcus-A132 and his prototype Longsword had been shot down by a corvette. Carter would never forget their introduction. There they were, sitting in the base on Reach, when through the door marched a young Spartan with midnight skin and the most arrogant eyes he'd ever seen. He looked at them up and down, then said:

"This that team full of rejects?"

Jun had chuckled (of _course _he had). Jorge had frowned. Kat had been expressionless. Thom had been indignant. Carter had just given a razor-thin smile and said, "Welcome to Noble Team. You must be Emile."

Emile had given a sloppy salute. "I sure hope I am, boss. Now, where's something I can shoot at?" He patted the M45 tactical on his back. "My shotty needs some lovin'."

Things had deteriorated from there, with Emile turning the local shooting range into his own free-fighting zone. Thom and Carter had been forced to restrain him, after he started unloading shells into the walls. When he heard this report, the psych-man who had reviewed Emile added "Tendency to become rebellious and aggressive" to the report. Carter preferred to go with axe-crazy.

He had smoothed out over the years, tempered by mission after mission involving high-risk and danger. In the field, he was ruthlessly competent, alternating between cold-eyed precision and ballistic carnage. Carter had seen him throw himself at Elites, snarling through his helmet, his kukri slashing back and forth. Undisciplined. Unorthodox. Unpredictable.

Carter had petitioned Colonel Holland for a replacement for Emile, when he learned about this mission. The few operations he had been on when there had been action against Insurrectionists had been…interesting to say the least. Emile, already possessed of a burning hatred of Covenant, seemed to take an equally strong approach when dealing with rebels. From what Carter had been told during training in Alpha Company, the members of the Insurrection had been underhanded, dirty fighters. The skull-faced Spartan seemed to think that a similar attitude was needed. Giving absolutely no quarter, he had gunned down more than one surrendering Innie. Once, back on Reach in 2548, when a small group of freedom fighters had staged uprisings across the Viery territory, Noble had been sent to put it down. After a few days, the last of the rebels had been rounded up and arrested.

Noble were left to guard the ten-or-so rebels they had captured. When their encampment had been hit by a surprise air assault from repurposed UAVs, the team-except Emile, who'd been left to watch them-had been mobilised. When Carter and the others had returned, they'd found their prisoners lying dead on the ground, killed where they had stood. And Emile had stood off to one side, nonchalantly wiping the barrel of his shotgun.

Carter had been bewildered and furious. "What the hell happened, Spartan?" he had bellowed, striding over to Emile and tearing off his helmet.

Emile had not removed his helmet. He never did. Instead, he simply shrugged and said, "They tried to escape. Sir."

After that little incident, Emile had been kept under close observation. Nobody believed that the rebels had tried to escape. The Spartan had learned to toe the line after that, but he hadn't learned to back off completely.

No-one on the team had any sympathy for those who tried to destablise humanity in its darkest hour. Jorge had always been condemnatory of the URF and similar movements, but the man was inherently compassionate. Emile…Emile was a loose cannon.

Carter decided to end this line of thought, which would have no satisfying ending or resolution. Emile was audacious, but an effective member of the team. If he stepped out of line, then Carter would put his foot down. _There. Be content with that. Now, focus on the mission._

Accessing his COM, Carter found the message from Holland. It was audio only, the sound choppy and static-filled. It had obviously been sent via Slipspace probe. Meaning it had only recently arrived. Meaning something that hadn't been covered in the briefing. Meaning unforeseen…complications. He frowned.

"_Noble One, this is Noble Actual. By the time you receive this transmission, you'll be on the mission. There's new intel regarding the purpose of your mission. Your orders to assist the 126__th__ in defusing the civilian riots still stand-however, there have been new developments. Our ONI satellites in the atmosphere picked up a secure transmission from rebel-first elements in the population. Innies are most likely responsible for stirring things up planetside, although reports are unconfirmed on that. In any case, be advised; there are hostile forces in Dramus, and they are in all likelihood aware of your approach. Expect a rough welcome. Holland out."_

So, the rebels were aware that Spartans were being deployed. He opened a COM channel to the pilot. "_Pilot, we have reports of hostile forces groundside. Expect flak fire."_

"_Roger that, sir." _The pilot, trained professional that he was, did not bother to ask questions. Instead, he guided his Falcon into a steep dive, minimising his target.

Carter looked down on the tall buildings, in varying shade of white, black and grey. A few were on fire, and others had massive holes or scorch marks on their sides. In the few high-rise apartments to the east, muzzle flashes could be seen in the upper windows. Looters had evidently assailed those places.

The streets weren't much better. Some were deserted, filled with only wreckage and burnt-out cars, but others were roiling, violent, screaming masses of humanity. The mob ruled the city, torching and looting at will. Many had already been killed as the madness spread its cloak over the metropolis. The CAA and Dramus Police Department were silent-they had been the first places targeted. What few members of those organizations remained had fled to the UNSC perimeter around the city. The warships on patrol in the system had dropped their complements of leathernecks, who had been trying for a straight week to defuse the situation.

It wasn't exactly known what had caused the debacle. The ongoing war, the tight restrictions the UNSC had put into place, Insurrectionist propaganda, or just simple rage. It didn't matter. Noble would help clean it up. Carter checked his NAV system built into his helmet, and nodded. The LZ was only a few klicks away now. Suddenly a bright flash appeared on one of the lower rooftops.

Something _whooshed _past them, and it took Carter a second to work out that it had been a rocket. The party had begun. "Evasive manoeuvres!" he yelled, and the Falcon began jinking from left to right. _"Jun, get on thermals and nail the bastard."_

"_Copy that, "_the sniper said tersely, and pulled back the charging lever on his rifle. Sighting downwards, he tracked his target for a few seconds and then fired a single, jarring shot. _"Neutralised."_

He couldn't see through the smoke and flames, but Carter took Jun's word for it. The man was uncannily accurate. "_Double-time, pilot. Let's not risk another attempt." _He then turned his attention to the reclining Emile. _"Noble Four, weapons check-we're not waiting around."_

"_We've got a few minutes, "_the Spartan said dismissively.

Carter gripped the side of his seat. _"_Now_, Spartan."_

Without another word, Emile began prepping his shotgun, loading it with shells. Flashes inside his reflective helmet told Carter that he was performing a suit diagnostic. His expression couldn't be read, but the Commander was sure that it consisted of a glare directed his way. "Fix your face, Emile, "he called above the noise. "Or it'll stay that way." He wasn't quite sure, but he thought he heard a chuckle, and Carter relaxed. For the moment.

Kat's voice came over the COM. "_Commander, I've got that link with the marine HQ set up." _Her voice had a strong Russian accent, the last remnants of the Koslovic settlers that had made up the majority of New Harmony's population.

"_Sitrep?"_

"_Not pretty, sir. They need us on the ground ASAP."_

"_Alright." _He switched to the SQUADCOM. "_Listen up, Noble Team. Dramus City is going to pieces due to possible rebel activities from URF elements in the population. The UNSC Marine Corps have set up at the city limits and are trying to make inroads into the whole mess. We're going to lend them a hand. Do this right, we'll be back to Reach and fighting the real enemy in no time."_

Jorge cleared his throat. _"Sir, why would rebels want to incite a whole city to riot?" _Despite his Hungarian descent-Palhaza, in fact-Jorge had a definite British twinge to it. Even he didn't know why.

Carter shrugged. _"Be sure to ask them if we cross paths, Jorge."_

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, save for the whirring rotors and the roaring from the streets below. Then, after a few minutes, they passed over the wide, blackened strip that more or less made up the perimeter. Dramus had always been a very open city-there was no river, bridge or other formation that set it apart. Down on the strip, Carter could see figures moving about. Marines on patrol. A few others were stringing up razor wire and motion sensors. There must have been around two thousand of them altogether.

Which didn't leave a whole lot for any kind of offensive or push into the city. Then again, what was there to fight against? All they could hope to do was calm things down.

The 126th had commandeered a massive Genet industrial complex as a staging area. The large open spaces, warehouses and convenient geography made it a choice location. The roof of the main building was being used as a makeshift airpad. Pelicans and Falcons were a constant stream, dropping fireteams into the city.

Their Falcons came to rest upon the concrete and glass structure, and the steady hum of the engines dissipated. "Move out!" Carter shouted, and the six-man team of Spartans disembarked as one. Boots rang out upon the roof's surface, and the glass trembled. Hopefully it would support their combined weight. Moving together, tightly knit, Noble Team headed for the trapdoor that led down to the lobby.

The vast space, once filled with cubicle workers and administrators, had been converted into triage. Groaning marines lay on stretchers, their wounds being seen to by grim-faced medics. Cut by broken glass, burnt by firebombs and beaten by enraged mobs, they were a sore sight to see. A few noncoms, their injuries far more serious, were being treated in makeshift surgical sections. Blood-slicked curtains hastily thrown around the individual tables showed the desperation.

As the Spartans trooped past, heading for the main doors, many marines looked up in awe to see the armored figures. A few even cheered or held up clenched fists. Others, however, simply looked away or looked even more defeated. Carter understood their thinking: if Spartans were being deployed, then the shit was about to hit the fan.

The doors burst open, and a knot of freshly wounded leathernecks stumbled through. One, a burly corporal with fresh _plasma _burns on the right side of his face, spat on the ground with contempt. "This is fuckin' ridiculous, mate. It don't matter 'ow many we send into that hellhole, we's always gonna be comin' out bruised. And with what to show for it, eh?" His cohorts murmured agreement. "That bloody Semoln district, blessed Lord above…"

He looked up to see Carter at the head of the team and did a double take. "Wow-ee. Spartans, eh? Maybe we'll get a change o' pace, now. You boyos come to sort things out?"

Jorge chuckled in his deep voice. "Wouldn't be here if we weren't, corporal. We go where they tell us."

"Aye, "the man agreed, "that's God's honest truth, cully. I 'spect you'll be wanting to see General Ashton?"

Carter nodded. "Point us in the right direction?"

The corporal pointed out the doors, to a square of bright halogen lights about one hundred metres away. "CP's out thataway, Commander. Ashton's big bloke with white hair and such, can't miss him. Now, beggin' your leave, I'd like to get this burn seen to." He winced and slapped a dressing on it.

"How did that happen?" Kat interjected, depolarising her helmet. The man raised his brows-evidently, he hadn't guessed that there was a woman beneath that armor.

"Some of them crazies running 'round in the city are equipped with Covie weapons, "he scowled. "Don't ask me how. 'Spect some goddamn Innies are seeding the crowds. Not 'ard to do, all thing considered." Kat nodded simply-Carter could tell that she had already taken this information and added it to her mission analysis. Facts were churning through that brain like soup.

The corporal excused himself and Noble Team moved outside. Jun lagged behind. The corporal nudged him in the arm, a brave act in itself. Most people who nudged Spartans ended up dead or severely inconvenienced. "Fair lookin' woman you got there, "he murmured. "She taken at all?"

Jun punched the man in the shoulder amicably-restrained, of course. "Afraid so. Real jealous sort of man. The sort you wouldn't want to cross." The corporal, bewildered by this friendly gesture, shook his head. "Ahh, war's full o' disappointments, "he sighed.

The team moved out across the lawns. Once well-kept and trimmed, they had been trampled by the feet of the marines and numerous vehicles. To the west, the sun had begun to sink through the smog and clouds, colouring them lurid orange. The lack of daylight wouldn't make this op any easier. Another snag in an already dicey mission.

The CP was a large, polycrete building about the size of a small house. Inside, the space was crammed with computers, monitors and holo-boards, showing city schematics and force deployments. The squawking of radios, the barking of orders and the humming of machines created a massive din.

Carter gestured to the MPs standing outside. "General Ashton?"

One of the marines nodded. "Follow me, sir." The man went inside, and Noble followed, to a large holo-table at the forefront of the room.

General Ebenezer Ashton was a stout, bony man well into his sixties. His cropped hair was white as a bone, almost silver. His hands looked like they were chiseled from stone, all lines and edges. He was extremely tall, only a head shorter than Jorge, who stood at over seven feet tall. His posture was rock-solid; however, his eyes, red-rimmed and sunken, spoke of his exhaustion.

As Carter strode up to him, Ashton was barking into a long-distance radio. "-don't care what kind of guns they have! Any armed civilians can be considered as threats and treated as such. But for the love of God's green fields, _do not _open fire unless fired upon first! Understood? Good, now get to work, lieutenant." He broke off the channel and sighed heavily, kneading his eyes. Abruptly, he turned to face Carter.

"So. You must be Noble Team." It was a statement, not a question.

The team saluted as one. "Commander Carter-259 reporting for duty, sir. This is my second-in-command, Kat-320, and Jorge-052, Thom-293, Jun-266 and Emile-239, "he said, pointing out each member in turn.

Ashton smiled briefly. "Whole lot of numbers there, son. Funny that there should be so many. Last I heard, from a group of other Spartans on Jericho-" he idly stretched his arms-"there was only a class of seven-five." He looked at them steadily. "And their armor wasn't all gussied up like yours. Strange thing, don't you think?"

Carter stayed silent, and made a subtle gesture for the others to do the same. The existence of other Spartan classes was top secret, at class-five security. Only those in the Beta-Five sub cell and certain other high-ranking members of Section Three had access to information about the Spartan-III's.

Seeing he wasn't going to be getting an answer, the general shrugged. "Well, no matter. Not my business to pry. Besides, Spartans is Spartans, doesn't matter if they're wearing pantaloons or armor. Step this way, Commander." He moved to the holo-table, ushering a few other members of the command staff away. This was going to be classified.

Ashton waved a hand over the glowing surface, and a 3-D model of the city hissed to life, coloured purple and blue. Small patches of green dots marked the positions of marine advance teams. Most of them were on the periphery. As real-time data was fed through via drones and satellites, the hologram changed. A residential building on the west-side slowly toppled in minute death. It even made a small breaking sound.

The inner city swirled with more dots, indicating the civilian crowds. Carter was only slightly disturbed that they were coloured red.

Ashton pulled up battle reports and mission logs from the marines that had returned. "Here's how we stand. Dramus is separated into five different sections-four quarters, arranged around a central district. We've managed to get a foothold on the north and west sections, but the south and east are still packed with those dead-heads-"

"How can you be so sure they're all dead-heads? Sir." Jun, true to his nature, had interrupted.

Ashton glared at the truculent Spartan. "Because, _Warrant Officer, _the first thing we did after making landfall was assist with evacuations. If any civilians are still in the city, it's because they want to be there. And for that, we have to deal with them." He turned back to the briefing.

"The central district, known as Semoln, isn't big, but it's a goddamned rat's maze full of streets and cul-de-sacs. Most of the riff-raff in there isn't exactly street trash-we've got city gang members, rogue cops, and probably more'n a few Innies. I've already lost two platoons to the bastards. They're wearing us down slowly. Hell, there's one street where I've lost a full dozen. I can say with surety that we'll nab the surrounding areas with time-but we'll do it a hell of a lot sooner if Semoln is brought under our control. However, we don't have the manpower or resources to strike through. That-" he eyed Carter beadily-"is where you come in."

"I'll be drawing elements of the 8th Division around the border of Semoln. Kick up some dust, make some noise. Get our rebellious friends on their toes. I want you Spartans pushing through, eliminating anything that resembles a threat. Cut off the head, and this snake will croak. You'll be light and swift, but skilled enough to do some serious damage." His face assumed a bleak smile. "Or so Colonel Holland assures me."

Rifling through a desk packed with hardware, he held up a data pad and handed it to Kat. "This will be our secure line. I've got my finite AI keeping it safe from hackers or eavesdroppers. I can almost guarantee it to work. Keep this in mind, Noble-you will have no other support. Marines in the city might lend a hand, but don't expect anything else. You'll be on your own, until I decided to pull you out. Clear?"

Carter nodded, already processing these facts. Kat would be able to keep their line to Ashton watertight-she was as good as an AI-but the lack of backup could be an issue. _It wouldn't be a Noble mission if it were easy, _he reminded himself. "How long will we be in the field, sir?"

Ashton shrugged. "Sun's just setting now. I reckon we can have you out by dawn-if you ain't done much by that time, then I reckon you can't do a lot more. Get to the motor pool we've got set up on the complex's east side. Grab some Mongooses and fast-track it to the coordinates on that pad. It's show time, Noble."

Carter straightened, and threw off a salute. "Sir! We'll get it done."

The general nodded dubiously. "I sure hope you can, son. Dismissed." He returned to his contemplation of the holo-table, his eyes scanning new reports just in. On the outskirts of Semoln, a small group of green dots winked off. More explosive traps. They had claimed the lives of good men. Too many. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

He was getting too old for this. Riots, attrition-and now, a group of Spartans. More of Section Three's pet reapers. Demon slayers and heroes all, undoubtedly, but they were synonymous with ONI-to him, anyway. The few times he'd crossed paths with spooks had not been pleasant. Hell, there'd even been an inquiry into his personal affairs eight years back. He'd dodged it only barely, with help from Lord Hood. Now there was a man after his own heart. He had no love for those creeps.

Maybe it was all irrational. Maybe this "Noble Team"-he scowled at the irregularity of that name, it should have been a colour-would solve all his problems. But if experience had taught him anything, it was that if the worst could happen, it would. Now that would be an interesting wager. A riot in a small city on a backwater planet not even under Covenant attack, how much trouble could ensue?

With a group of Spartans, anything was possible. Particularly a group with one that had a skull on his helmet.


	2. Chapter 2

Audacity

_As the legend of the Spartan has developed, certain details have become expected. Stoicness, lethality and above all, an overriding duty to the mission and the parameters and rules that surround it. The class-twos had it, and __045888947 has carried on the tradition. That being said, I'd love to know the course of Emile's training pre-Noble. As impeccable as his mission preparedness is, he is not so much a Spartan as a warrior. The brutality of the original Greek Spartans notwithstanding, Noble Four's actions necessitate a far tighter grip on his participation during operations. It's unfortunate that this is the sort of thing that sparks his rebellious tendencies, however._

-SPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/NOBLE Performance Reports, citing file N-63732/S-III/A239 (WARNING-ACCESS LOGGED; BYPASS SCHEME "OPEN SESAME" VERIFIED)

**0749 hours, 13****th**** of March, 2550 (UNSC Military Calendar)**

**Kappa Indus System, Planet Esvorl IV**

**Dramus City, Halicarna**

"These things are great!"

Laughing, Thom-A293 clicked the steering bars of his Mongoose ATV and spun the small vehicle around in a circle. He flashed the lights in the faces of the rest of the team, who were gathered outside the small warehouse-turned-motor pool. Pulling off his own white Mark V(B) helmet with the UA attachment, he revealed his lightly tanned face and wrinkled his nose. "Time is money, Commander. You guys are moving like molasses." He blew a strand of black hair out of his face and grinned.

Snorting, Jorge-052 strode up and picked Thom up by his shoulder plate. "Sure as hell won't be moving anywhere fast with you perched on that 'Goose, Thom. Shove off, this one's mine." The gargantuan Spartan clipped his machine gun to the magnetic passenger plate, and settled behind the wheel. "Happy travels, mates." Kicking the pedals, he trundled off through the darkness towards the perimeter. Thom looked aggrieved, but didn't press the matter. Someone of Jorge's weight wouldn't be able to drive an ATV with somebody else on it.

Carter-A259 shook his head and moved up to the marine sergeant in charge of the distribution of the 126th's vehicles. "Sorry about that, marine. You got some Mongooses for us?"

The sergeant nodded dourly. "Ashton informed me we'd be having a visit from Spartans, sir. Follow me." The man walked towards a series of racks, where dozens of swift Mongooses were placed. Many had scorch marks and pieces missing, but a few were in mint condition. It was a few such as this that were presented to them now. However, their fresh appearance was not the only thing that made them stand out. These ATVs were heavily armored, accentuating their blocky shape. A wide-barreled cannon decorated the area above the front wheel. The wheels, to counter this added weight, were twice as big as normal. Carter knelt to inspect the fore gun. "What are these? Not standard, I take it."

The sergeant's eyes had lit up at the sight of the vehicles. Evidently he was an aficionado. "Those are the new prototype Assault 'Gooses, sir. The typical Covie RAV carries its own guns, ours don't. Seems our boys at Misrah have decided to fix the problem. They added a fifty-cal to the front, and added some armor plating to boot. The general wanted you to have the ones we were given, sir. Only three other regiments that were, sir, and two of 'em in this M-EDF."

Jun ran a finger along the steering bars. "Amazing. When will these be regular issue?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Not for at least another five years. Mongooses are a dime a dozen, but outfit 'em with weaponry and armor, the price is gonna soar."

Jun sniffed under his breath. "Five years?" he muttered. "War'll probably be over by then." Carter jabbed him in the side. The last thing these men needed were pessimistic Spartans. He nodded curtly. "Thank you, sergeant. We'll take it from here." The man nodded and walked away, pulling a greasy rag from his pocket with the intent on cleaning a Warthog's windshield.. Carter motioned to the three Assault Mongooses. "Mount up, Noble. Kat, you're with me. Jun, go with Thom. Emile, you're going solo."

The skull-faced Spartan barked a laugh. "You don't trust me to ride with you, sir?"

Carter glanced at him, half-serious, half-joking. "I can't say there's a whole lot I would trust you with, Emile. Particularly not driving while facing hostiles. You might try and use the damn thing as a bludgeon."

Thom laughed and smacked Emile's shoulder pauldron, eliciting a glare from the temperamental Spartan. It was hard to tell-the skull looked constantly angry. "Oooh, burn. You want some ice for that?"

Emile walked over to the Mongoose and got on it. Without another word, he accelerated the vehicle away. Thom watched him go, and whistled. "Touchy sort of guy."

Kat stood on the metal plate and hooked one of her arms around the bracing handle. "You can hardly blame him, Thom. I mean, it's you." Her voice was sardonic, cutting.

Thom gave her a pretend scowl. "You say the nicest things, _Catherine. _What if I told you that-"

"Enough!" Carter snapped. "Cut the chatter, Thom. Kat, sync those co-ordinates to our HUDs. Let's move! Go, go go!"

Even as their prototype vehicles growled into motion, Carter was still mentally berating himself. As team leader, it was his responsibility to preserve the discipline of the unit and ensure mission focus. He was letting Thom and Jun get away with far too much. To say nothing of Emile. Perhaps a possible insubordination-infraction notice would help keep their tongues from wagging.

The headlights of their Mongooses cut a jagged path threw the darkening air, throwing up momentary shadows. They trundled along the east access road. At a small checkpoint ahead, staffed by six marines, Jorge and Emile were waiting. The big Spartan looked almost comical astride the ATV, even with its added size. He barked a laugh. "These new 'Gooses are really something. With any luck, we'll get to keep them, eh?"

Emile chortled, which was an odd reaction. Apart from the odd cynical snort, he was not a laughing sort of person. "You'll probably break it as soon as we see some action, big man." He caressed the shotgun on his back. "Hopefully not too far away."

The corporal on duty strode up to Carter. "I have to ask your business, sir. The general wants us to check everybody that comes through here. I apologise for the inconvenience."

Carter could hardly believe it. They had already been briefed, by the commanding officer of the entire _regiment _no less. Not only that, but they were functioning as an auxiliary unit to the 126th. They had more or less complete autonomy. Why were they being waylaid like this? "We've already been briefed by Ashton, corporal. Our mission has commenced and we can't waste any more time-"

"I know that, sir, "the man said tensely. "But these orders come from the general himself, and are being applied to everyone. I even had an ONI reconnaissance team come through here that we needed to check. If you don't complete the registration, then I'm going to have to detain you. We can't allow any unauthorized deployments or ops."

Emile slammed a fist down on the Mongoose, making the entire marine group jump. Noble, by virtue of experience, didn't so much as flinch. Carter cast his gaze towards him, willing the temperamental Spartan to calm down. It was not to be. "You wanna try to detain me, little man? Come over here and try it!" He half-stepped off the ATV, fists bunching. The corporal stepped back, eyes widening with panic. He'd obviously never seen anyone like Emile before.

Jorge intervened, grabbing Emile by the shoulders and pulling him back. The Spartan-II pushed the snarling Spartan away from the checkpoint, off a few metres. "Don't mind him, "he remarked sardonically to the startled leathernecks, "he hasn't been house-broken yet." He went off to where Emile was seething to remonstrate with him.

Carter sighed audibly, and presented his hand to where the corporal had presented a large data-pad, which was being used as a mission log. He tapped in his name, rank, his commanding officer's name, the members of his team and the parameters of his mission. The screen pulsed green, and the marine stepped back. "Thank you, sir. You can proceed." His voice dropped a notch. "Is he…alright? In the head, I mean?"

Carter stared at him. "I'm not sure I know myself, marine." Giving a final nod, he got back on the Mongoose and hit the gas. Thom and Jun were close behind, and Jorge and Emile saddled up. Giving one final growl, the skull-faced Spartan rolled his ATV into the darkness.

He only made it about twenty metres before a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him off the Mongoose with a start. Carter had stopped his vehicle and had been waiting for Emile to pass him. Slamming him up against a telemetry pole installed by the techs, he snapped, "What the hell was that, Emile? Are you _trying_ to get court-martialled?" He shook him a few times for good measure. Jorge, Kat and Thom watched with interest. Jun, alternatively, looked away, bored.

Seeing Emile's helmet swivel to look at his sheathed kukri, he jabbed a finger in his chest. "Don't even think about it, Warrant Officer. Now explain, damnit."

Emile's tone was deceptively calm, which was somewhat spoiled by his twitching shoulders. "Bunch of morons, trying to stop us. The old man mustn't have his head on right, limiting the effectiveness of goddamn _Spartans, _sir. You trying to tell me you don't think that's off? That it doesn't get you mad? It sure as hell does me!" His voice was rising by the second. He tried to lunge at Carter.

"_Stand down Spartan!" _he bellowed, so loudly that the echoes could be heard for miles. It even managed to give Emile pause.

Carter released him, but his tone had become even more steely. "I agree it's out of the ordinary. But it's also no excuse to buck authority and go rogue. I'm team leader, and if I say to fall in line, then you damn well do it, Emile. Try anything more and I'll ship you back to Reach with an anti-deployment penalty. You won't be out on missions for months. Am I clear?"

Emile vibrated, but brushed himself off, and gave a stiff salute. "Clear as piss. Sir." With that cold rejoinder, he returned to his idling 'Goose, and settled in the driver's seat.

Without another word, Noble Team commenced their journey into the city. Fishtails of dirt flew into the air, and the six super-soldiers raced towards the nearest city entrance.

Back at the CP, General Ashton nodded as he heard the account of S-A239's actions at the checkpoint from the corporal. He audiotaped the conversation, and added it to his mission review. A small file, but many more…incidents…like that, and it grow exponentially. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought of a Spartan going on report.

God knew that he respected the bastards. Without them in the war, humanity would be even fewer than they were today. But there was one thing he couldn't stand, and that was insubordination. No-one, not even a Spartan, was going to become rebellious. Not on his watch. Holland had asked him to compile a report on Noble's effectiveness. This was only the start. His eyes were out there, in the city. If anything happened, then it would go on paper. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn't like he was discriminating. Right?

"_I said get back, damn you!"_

The crowd of drunken rioters screamed their fury and bellowed various profanities as they clashed with the line of mixed marines and DPD officers, who were trying to bar their way. The east opening of Pardindo Street, the main thoroughfare throughout the Narupt district, had become a battleground. Remnants of past skirmishes were scattered everywhere. Broken glass, rubbish, discarded riot shields and stun batons, even dead bodies-it was all added to the mix. The attempt to defuse the riots here had been going for seventeen hours, and it didn't look to be stopping anytime soon.

Colonel Gaspard Young, the commanding officer of operations in the district, ducked his head as another round of Molotovs made their way over the crude picket they had established, and shattered on bitumen, sending up dozens of spotfires. A man screamed as one exploded next to his leg, setting it alight. He writhed on the ground in agony, until another marine rushed over to beat out the flames.

Golf and Romeo companies had managed to set up various redoubts and checkpoints before the madness had spread this far, but they were under heavy beatings. They'd hit upon the idea of using the city's various discarded vehicles-garbage trucks, buses, even the odd JOTUN combine from the harvest fields north of Dramus-and form mechanised skirmish lines, supplementing the Warthogs they'd already possessed. The projectiles from the rioters had barely even scratched them, and precise justice-dealt out with no remorse-had begun to work. Many had deserted, and they'd advanced street by street.

That was when things got interesting.

Dramus had never been a metropolis prone to vigilantism or anarchy. The various leaders were tough on crime and lawlessness, and steady application of this philosophy for decades running had instilled an almost martial mentality amongst the populace. Do your part. Don't make a fuss. Don't cause trouble. It had worked, and worked well. Thus, it was pretty damned obvious that the riots had been caused by subversive activity. In other words, Insurrectionists. Who had not only whipped the citizens into a frenzy, but had seeded the crowds with something far more dangerous. Firearms.

Young remembered their first incident with the armed hoons. They'd gotten far into Narupt, and weren't far from Obvensky Boulevard, which was practically the gateway into Semoln. He'd sent an advance platoon in first, quick and quiet. He'd wanted to gauge the landscape before doing anything drastic.

When the call came through they were being fired upon by _plasma rifles_, he'd thought the COMS were playing up. The next thought was that the Covenant had arrived. When the platoon returned-at half strength, and bearing horrific injuries-the answer had been neither. That didn't mean it was any less bad.

Things took a turn for the worse as more and more reckless, trigger-happy rioters came equipped with high-tech, military grade weaponry. Not many more Covenant armaments, but plenty of pistols from the M6 range, pump action em-nineties and even the odd MA5B. Numbers weren't the only thing on their side-now they had the weapons to match it with the marines. Deep down, Young had to admit: he wasn't sure how to proceed. Not without some sort of miracle. Or reinforcements. Or-and at this he snorted to himself-Spartans.

Shakily, the colonel got to his feet, and ran a hand through his red-grey hair. He had been wanting to inject some dye supplements into it-some last measure of vanity-but he had been on tour for the past four months without so much as a twenty-four hour pass. Not that it mattered out here. He grabbed the loudhailer from the ground and clicked it again. _"This is a colonel of the 126__th__ regiment, UNSC Marine Corps! If you do not cease and desist, we will be obliged to use deadly force-" _He was abruptly cut off as a burst of machine-gun fire from further down the street slashed past his head, sending flakes of stone spurting outward from the concrete wall to his right. "Fuck!" he stormed, and hobbled over to where his XO, Major Bert Winstead, was standing, directing the squads. "Report!"

The major's long, ascetic face soured, which is what it usually did when he was asked anything. Young had worked with him for three years, and had never seen a more miserable man. "Can't keep this shit up, Colonel. We push them back, they just melt away into the streets, get a few more of their buddies and come back worse than ever. Hell, we may as well just blow them all away and have done."

Young shook a stern finger. "Don't be getting ideas, major. We're not here to conduct wholesale slaughter. Now, where are those tear gas canisters I ordered?"

Winstead threw up his hands in disgust. "Wish I knew, sir. We got Command on the horn, had it out with supply, and got confirmation. That was at 0700, sir, and not a whisper since then. Reckon we might have been screwed over. That, or some other unit's got it even worse than us and the gas got diverted. We're using the stun batons and tasers, but it's not enough-and we can't spare men to handle any of these dipshits that we do detain. We need reinforcements, more than anything else, sir. 1st Lieutenant Trement's platoon is down to twenty men, not counting police casualties. The barricade's starting to take some real hits, too."

Young chuckled cynically. "Is there anything else wrong, major?"

Winstead looked at him, deadpan. "I think I pulled a muscle in my arm, sir, but I'm otherwise alright." They both shared a moment of laughter, then fell silent. Young sighed, and stood up. "Well, nothing for it, major. As you were-"

Leaving a white vaporous trail, a thin bullet scored a jagged path through the thin hull of a Genet car and entered Young's shoulder, passing straight through. A roar of pain exploded from his mouth and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his bloodied shoulder. The wound felt like a crack of burning fire, eating through his bones. "What-the hell was-that?" he managed to say through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, Winstead shouted for all the men to get their heads down. Once that was done, he grabbed a hand-held radio and barked into it. "_Minute-Man Echo, we require visual of hostiles on Pardindo Street access, approximately forty or so metres from established barricade. Can you spot any marksmen or other armed hostiles, over?"_

A minute later, one of their snipers on the rooftops, code-named "Minutemen", responded. The man could have been anywhere. "_Affirmative, major. I've got eyes on a group of hostiles gathering at the street's far end. They appear to have long-range rifles and other arms with them. Some of them are also gathering up usable vehicles, sir. Looks like they're preparing to charge. You need an assist?" _Winstead looked at Young, who shook his head.

"_That's a negative, Echo. We might be able to head this one off at the pass." _The major put away the radio and helped the colonel sit up. "Medic! The colonel's been hit." Within seconds, a woman bearing a satchel marked with a red cross appeared, withdrawing a bandage, some morphine and a biofoam canister. Shoulder wounds were low on the list of critical injuries, but they could still be problematic. Infection and loose shrapnel were often the culprits. Upon seeing the wound, the medic's mouth turned grim. "It's a good thing they're lousy shots, "she remarked.

Slowly, painfully, Young got to half-standing, while the medic began her work. "Get me that loudhailer, "he commanded. As it was placed into his hands, he stood up-though not quite above the barricade-and spoke into it. _"Who the HELL just fired that shot? You are firing upon UNSC marines, and have been officially declared hostile. Either get out of here or prepare to die, fuckwits." _His temper had been sorely tried, and the time for diplomacy was over. Winstead grunted a laugh at his words.

Jeers and scornful laughter were heard, even from that distance, and another voice responded, on a loudhailer of their own. _"I officially declare you invading, oppressive shitheads, little man. You've tried to enforce your tyranny on the citizens of this city for too long, and we aren't going to stand for it, no matter how many people you kill or how many guns you fire." _The voice was sickeningly sanctimonious, and other men in the mob uttered agreement.

"_What in God's name are you on about!" _Young shouted, deafening those closest to him. _"The goddamn Covenant are the invaders, and that tyranny stuff is bullshit. The UNSC has never-"_

He was cut off by a wave of loud invective, most of which couldn't be heard. Winstead grimly drew his M7 submachine gun from his hip and cocked it. "Wasting your time, sir. I think _this-"_he slid a magazine into the chamber-"is the only language they're going to understand." He grinned ferally. "Time for a little payback."

Young raised an eyebrow at Winstead's apparent eagerness to enter the fray. _Guess we all possess a bloodlust. _"It would appear so, major." Beckoning for the radio, he contacted their sniper again. _"Echo, scratch previous order, we are about to be engaged. Requesting sitrep on hostile activity and support fire when the bullets start flying, over."_

"_Solid copy, colonel." _There was a pause. _"I make thirty, forty hostiles, all armed. Some of them have plasma rifles and pistols, others just garden-variety firearms. They've got a few flatbed trucks working, sir. It could get messy. Permission to put a few rounds into the tires?"_

"_Granted."_

Loud cracks echoed down the street as their sniper fired upon the trucks. Strange pops followed these, and cries of shock from the rioters as their transports went bust. Winstead and Young exchanged triumphant grins. _"Thanks for the hand, Echo. Feel free to sit in on this one."_

The sniper chuckled over the radio. _"Thanks for the invite sir, I'll post up here and try and-aaargh!"_

The transmission was abruptly cut off. Young jerked his gaze upward in alarm. "_Echo? Come in, I repeat, come in!"_ He glared at the inky mass of buildings, trying in vain to discern what had happened. It didn't sound good, whatever it was. The other marines had heard the transmission, and were glancing around nervously. If there were hostiles on the rooftops above…

But as luck would have it, they had to put those concerns aside. The sounds of engines were heard, and loud shouts. The rioters were charging the barricade.

Young risked a glance, and saw a 4x4 bearing down on them, whooping men huddled on the back. Gunfire echoed through the air. For one insane moment, he was reminded of ancient footage he had seen of ethnic genocides in the 20th century in Africa, during history classes. It was amazing how a simple vehicle could be turned into a literal devil's chariot. No matter, they had weapons to take them out.

"Someone get a Jackhammer on that truck!" Young hollered above the din, and was rewarded with the sight of a marine from B-Platoon standing atop an overturned street cleaner drone, a dual-barreled launcher over one shoulder. His comrades laid down some cover fire while he adjusted his trajectory. His hand tightened on the firing lever-

With a crack, a sniper round buried itself in the rocket jockey's head. Giving a strangled yelp, he toppled off the drone and crashed to the pavement, ragged bits of brain and bone visible from the wound in his head. The entire marine company flung themselves down, guns pointed upward. There was no doubt, now, that their sniper was dead. Someone had appropriated his weapon. Young was about to order return fire when a loud bang was heard against their barricade. Metal blasted outward, wounding nearby men and women standing too close. The entire barricade had been ruptured.

Spitting dirt and blood, Young shakily got to his feet. "What-the hell was-that?" he croaked, for the second time. His ears were ringing and his tongue felt like it was coated with sandpaper.

The medic who had been working on him shook her head. "Sounds like they used something big-"

Another shot, and her skull exploded, sending the body toppling to the ground. Another two cracks and a pair of marines hit the dirt, their skulls drilled. Evidently it was an Innie sniper of some skill, and not some two-bit amateur. "Fuck!" the colonel shouted angrily. "We're getting picked off one by one! Major! Stand to!"

Winstead stumbled over, the right side of his face covered in flash-burns. His eyes were snapping with anger. "Sir! Barricade's gone to shit. They're gonna hit us hard in a moment."

"What's our strength?"

The major threw up his hands in despair. "Not enough to hold the street, sir." He lowered his voice. "Might have to retreat, colonel. Unless we get help, immediately." Winstead turned his attention towards one of the lieutenants, who had taken some shrapnel to the face.

The _last _thing Young wanted to do was pull out of a position they had only recently secured, would be nigh-impossible to retake and was their golden ticket into the Semoln district. But-as he saw more marines catch fire from the gaps in between the destroyed vehicles-he knew he didn't have a choice. More people under his command would die, if he remained here. Just as he was about to give the order for the company to fall back, he heard the roar of engines and the sound of another bullet sizzling past. This one went into his left leg, sending an explosion of pain through his nervous system. He cried out in pain, and fell down to the ground. Young waited for the next bullet to kill him. A few seconds passed. Then a few more.

Still nothing. The colonel twisted and looked up at the buildings. Still faceless and blank. But no sound of a sniper rifle cutting through their ranks. Suddenly there was a yell, and a scrabbling noise above.

A body crashed down next to him, scaring the shit out of him. It had evidently fallen from the buildings above. Young turned the body over, revealing a young-ish man with a short blonde beard and messy hair. He was clad in grey fatigues, and had a few distinguishing scars. Definitely an Insurrectionist. From the odd angle of his head, his neck had been broken. But not on impact. Indeed, it had simply been _wrenched _to one side, snapping it like it was no stronger than brittle wood. Who had the strength necessary to do such a thing?

Suddenly a voice came over the radio. _"This is Noble Three, "_a terse voice with a strange accent said. _"Playtime is over."_

The major found him again and pulled him up, allowing the colonel to lean on him. "Sniper seems to be down, "he said heartily, seeing the corpse on the ground. "But who-"

With a blast on the horn, the truck careered towards their line, crammed with bloodthirsty rioters firing their weapons. Plasma bursts struck, and bullets chattered. The barricade would not survive such an assault, and they'd be mowed down, sniper or no. But who was this "Noble Three"? That was a designation he'd not heard before. Would he help them now?

The truck was about one hundred metres away now. Seventy metres. Fifty-

With a bang, a column of twisting flame erupted from the ground ahead of the truck, sending incendiary matter everywhere. The truck ground to a halt, giving the rioters pause. Angry orange flames lit up the scene

And the arrival of the armored person.

Clad in blue armor with grey highlights, and a helmet with a golden reflective visor, the person walked into the street from an alleyway. Over his back was a Designated Marksman Rifle, an armament not used in the corps. That meant Army assets-and, if the rumours were true…._Spartans._

The Spartan-if that's what he was-stopped in front of the rioters and faced them. A male voice, rough but steady, came from the almost beetle-like helmet. "I am Sierra Two-Five-Nine of Noble Team, "the man rumbled. "Lay down your arms or be neutralised."

The rioters had been stunned at the appearance of a Spartan, but quickly shook it off. "Fuck off, you freak, "one of them shouted, and fired his pistol at him.

The rounds hit the armor-and were deflected by a fluxing golden aura. An energy shield. Barely registering the impacts, the Spartan pulled the DMR off his back and cocked it at the gob smacked rebels. "So be it. Jun?"

A quarter of shots rang out like thunderclaps, and four rioters went down like ninepins. It happened so fast, it was impossible to tell who had been targeted first. Shouting in fear, they all piled back into the vehicle, and put it into fast reverse, while the blue Spartan stood still. They wanted away from the armored warrior and his deadly commands. Turning the truck around, the driver put his foot down.

Just then, a pair of smaller vehicles raced out from the other end of the street. Mongooses. The occupant of one quickly dismounted, while the other ATV-this one carrying two-stayed where it was. The first man quickly strode up the street, and seemed to grow in size by the second. Even by Spartan standards, he was immense, clad in armor that was a riot of green, orange and red. Clutched in his gargantuan hands was a machine gun of deadly proportions. Clicking the first ammo belt into position, he swung it up. A deep voice echoed from his helmet. "'Ello there."

Opening up, the giant cut down his attackers like they were stalks of wheat. A few tried to fire back and were riddled with bullets until they no longer seemed human. The storm of gunfire pulped the truck until it looked like scrap metal. Shrieking in terror, the few survivors fled down a nearby side-street. The titanic Spartan did not pursue, rather shouldered his machine gun, and proceeded up the street to join the first one. He threw off a salute, making a dull clang on his helmet. "All clear, Commander."

The Commander nodded, and then proceeded to the barricade, where ranks of marines and cops parted silently to let him through. More than a few looked frightened. The Spartan surveyed the remnants of Golf and Romeo Companies. "Who's in charge here?"

Young limped forward painfully, still supported by the major. "That would be me. Colonel Gaspard Young, district commander. Thanks for the hand, Spartan. Who are you guys?"

The blue-armored Spartan saluted crisply before removing his helmet, to reveal a thirty-something man with cropped black hair and serious blue eyes. "Commander Carter-259, SpecWar Group Three Noble Team, sir. We've been deployed to help assist the push into Semoln." He cast a gaze behind him, to the shambles Pardindo Street had become. "Resistance seems fierce in these parts."

Winstead snorted. "Understatement of the bloody year, Commander. They're dug in like sewer rats and every time we flush one group out, five more pop up to replace them. All it takes is for a group of them to get their hands on weapons and-" He saw the look Young was giving him, and subsided. "And so on."

The man, Carter, nodded understandingly. "We've come to break the chokehold, gentlemen. However, we are acting in our own capacity-we'll help you as we see fit, but Noble won't be riding shotgun with you on this one. What do you plan to do next, sir?"

The question came so quickly-and bluntly-that Young had to take a few seconds to collect himself. "Well-uh-we're going to secure this area first. Wait on reinforcements, then push deeper in. I assume you don't want to hang around?"

"You assume correctly, sir." He turned, just as the gargantuan Spartan clanked his way towards them, machine gun held at waist height like it was a briefcase. "Sir, Thom and Kat are posting down the end of the street. Reporting no signs of activity. Jun sends his compliments. As for Emile…"

Young heard the frown in Carter's voice. "You check his post, Jorge?"

Jorge shrugged. "Empty as a mouse hole, sir. I think he went off in pursuit. Against orders, of course." There was a matter-of-fact tone about his voice.

"As if I didn't know, "Carter muttered. He placed a hand to his COM unit that was inserted in his helmet. "Noble Four, come in. I repeat, Noble Four, acknowledge immediately." Another voice returned on the two-way channel that had been set up. It sounded coarse, and-if the colonel didn't know better-had an undercurrent of fierce, malignant joy. It was unnerving. _"I hear you, commander. Just gotta mop up a few strays that the big man didn't wipe." _There was a noise that sounded like a knife being unsheathed, and a strangled scream of pain. Every marine present flinched back in revulsion. Carter's fists clenched momentarily, then released. "We wait, then." Sighing, Jorge went to sit down on the bonnet of a crashed car. Carter remained standing.

The next few minutes passed in relative silence, punctuated only by the groans of wounded marines, the murmured orders of the officers and the popping and crackling of the flames. After sometime, _another _Spartan-this one clad in green-grey armor and bearing an SRS99 sniper rifle across his back-emerged silently from an alley and went to stand beside the commander, without preamble. The "Noble Three" earlier, no doubt. Young went to offer his gratitude, but received only a taciturn grunt in reply. A hard-bitten lot, this Noble Team. And these were hardly the worst. He remembered the voice over the radio, and shivered.

Footsteps sounded not far away, and a lithe figure appeared further down the street. It was hard to see in the fading light, but it was obviously another Spartan. As he marched towards them, more features became visible, and more of the men shrank back in fear. Even the dour Winstead blanched.

Steel grey armor, with red shoulder pauldron-not surprising in itself. The copious amounts of blood splattered all over it was. An especially dark red stain decorating one hip suggested an arterial flow. An M45 Tactical shotgun, over one shoulder, looked to be untouched. Instead, it was the bent-bladed kukri, clenched in one hand and positively dripping with gore, that looked to have been in the fight. The barbaric Spartan paused, slowed down and picked up a discarded shirt, and used it to wipe the blade.

Sauntering over to Carter, the Spartan stood to attention and planted a salute on his head. "Commander, reporting all hostiles neutralised." A sudden burst of flame illuminated his helmet-causing a collective gasp. A demonic skull had been etched on his dome-like visor, looking nothing less than the gaping maw of hell itself. Young tried to imagine what that would be like facing. _Beaten, broken, probably cut to ribbons by that goddamned knife, staring your own mortality literally in the face…nope, not for me, thanks._

The Spartan chuckled deeply. "It's a horror movie, right there on your TV, I know." He faced Carter. "Orders, boss?"

The commander's voice was deceptively calm. "Go with Jun and retrieve the Mongooses, get them up here. We move out in ten." Without another word, the pair of Spartans moved through the ruined barricade, heading for the street entrance. Marines literally scrambled to get out of their way. Young didn't blame them.

He turned to find that Carter and Jorge were moving down the street, to join the rest of their team on the Mongoose. That was the end of their brief partnership, presumably. He was glad for their assistance, all right-his leg was a constant, throbbing reminder of that-but he couldn't say he was sorry to see them go. He remembered seeing the infamous Spartan II "Red Team" in action on Arcadia, and how precise they had been. This casual brutality was like nothing he had ever seen. It was unsettling. "Interesting bunch, eh Major?" he murmured to Winstead, who scowled and spat. "Too right. I reckon we're well shot of them, sir."

The colonel sighed, and limped off to find a medic. He needed a shot of morphine to dull the pain.

Winstead looked around to make sure no-one was looking, and then pulled a small data-pad from his ammo belt around his waist. Quickly, he tapped in a few short sentences and then transmitted the message. If the damn thing was working, then it would reach the personal pad of General Ashton. Regarding a certain Spartan's unprofessional conduct. It had been in his orders, prior to deployment. He was largely unconcerned. What was the worst they could do to someone like Skully?

Once he was done there, he moved off to help the wounded.

"Did you see their faces?" Emile chortled as he and Jun picked their way through the debris and twisted metal that littered the archway that represented the entrance to Pardindo Street. "Like spooked bunnies who've seen a wolf."

Jun snorted. "More like a rabid dog. You're a wild one, Emile. Boss is going to have your ass in a sling if you keep this up." He went behind a marble column and got on his RAV which had been placed there.

The skull-faced Spartan shrugged, and found his own one. "Can't help it if I've got my head in the game. These bastards don't deserve mercy. Disrupting UNSC efforts, targeting buildings-worst of all, killing civilians. It's disgusting-"

"Like you care, "Jun shot back. "You've never shed a tear for any civvies who got killed on a mission, whether they were under our protection or not. Don't pull that crock of shit on me, man. It's not going to wash."

"Well, you got me there."


	3. Chapter 3

Audacity

_For most part, I have been able to project basic mission outcomes for the members of Noble Team-discounting, of course, the random and it must be said, tragic deaths of former teammates. Two-Five-Nine knows what needs to be done, and he has some good people around him to make it happen. Operative reports suggest that Oh-Five-Two acts as a calming influence on the entire group-unsurprising, given his compassionate nature (see civilian/marine reports attached DF-3281). Emile, however, is completely outside of my predictions. It's been said throughout ONI that One-One-Seven's projected survival rates are almost impossible to predetermine-with Emile, we have something similar. All that can be said is that sooner or later, he will buck authority and go rogue in some fashion. So far this has not led to any serious jeopardisation of life or personnel, but I fear it is only a matter of time. _

-SPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/NOBLE Performance Reports, citing file N-63732/S-III/A239 (WARNING-ACCESS LOGGED; BYPASS SCHEME "OPEN SESAME"VERIFIED)

**1105 hours, 13****th**** of March, 2550 (UNSC Military Calendar)**

**Kappa Indus System, Planet Esvorl IV**

**Dramus City, Halicarna**

**Semoln District**

Zachary Neilson had been born in simple enough circumstances, during the year 2530, five years after first contact with the Covenant onslaught at Harvest. His dad, a naval crewman onboard the late Admiral Mawikizi's flagship _Invictus_, had been killed during the Battle of Selkus Taurii two years ago, when the brilliant admiral had sacrificed himself and his own ship to purchase time for a crucial regrouping of the fleet in-system, which then turned into a rout by UNSC forces. Of course, eventually, the Covenant marshalled their strength, returned to Selkus Taurii and glassed every planet there. About thirty-seven million deaths in total. Including his dad, consumed when the _Invictus'_ reactor blew under the awesome power of four energy projectors.

After that his mother had struggled to cope with the loss of her husband, and her son's increasingly truant ways. Zachary had always found this bitterly amusing. _He was hardly ever around anyway. All those birthdays, Christmases, my high school graduation-where was he? Off playing spaceman. Servicing some old junker of a ship. Looking to be a hero._

_Well, there are no heroes._

His mother had committed suicide three months past. The docs said it had been a drug overdose or something. Sleeping pills, most likely. It didn't matter. What did matter is that Zachary was left alone on Halicarna. He had no other relatives even remotely close. Most of them had been way out in the Outer Colonies, and had still been there when the aliens had come a-calling. So there he had been, twenty years old and already bereft of anything barely resembling an anchor. No real prospects-he had just scraped through on his E4CE. All he had left was his mother's shoebox apartment and whatever was left to him in her will. Most of that was used up on the booze and wild nights at some of Dramus City's seediest clubs and drinking dens. It ran out appallingly fast.

Then the night had come, the 13th of March, when tension on the streets ran high. Fights broke out, property was damaged. Mobs gathered, took shape and purpose, in that almost biological conjoining of wills. The shit, as they say, had hit the fan. For what reason, he didn't know. Much less care. The only priority he had was keeping his head down and staying alive, until this whole thing blew over. Maybe he could find an abandoned house to crash in.

Creeping along the barely-lit Nendos Avenue, an extremely popular commercial road, Zachary kept to the shadows and slowly made his way towards the far end. On one side, there was the famous Bertrand Potter Shopping Centre, named after a famous entrepreneur who had been amongst the first settlers on Halicarna. Once a breathtaking buildings with arches and silver inlays, it was now smoke-blackened, covered with graffiti and utterly vandalised. Just one of many. He didn't especially care.

Shivering slightly in the cold autumn night, he drew his old leather jacket tighter around himself. He was an unremarkable sort of person, not too tall or short, stocky but not fat boobies. The only distinguishing feature about him was a mane of auburn hair that crowned his head. Many jibes had been made about it, likening its appearance to that of a girl's. He had settled most of those jests with fists. Talking was a waste of time, and wasn't tonight utter proof of that?

Up ahead, he saw a small nook-not quite an alley, but good enough for his purposes. Hurrying into the darkened gap, he made sure he was nestled behind a dumpster, then pulled out his small, grubby map and a hefty torch he'd stolen. It was time he got his bearings. He unfolded it, flicked on the torch and studied the city schematic. Unfortunately, it was a two-year old version, and while most of it was up to date, some things-such as the new Intrapole Freeway, which bisected Dramus City-were not on it. Nevertheless, he found Nendos Avenue. It wasn't far from the Hotel Ubari, which stood the border between this district and the next, Kalec. If he got that far, it would be relatively simple to get inside the hotel and bunker down. He might even be able to get into one of the penthouses and enjoy some luxury while he still could. But firstly, he was going to need some supplies. Food, a medkit, and some break-in tools.

Smiling in anticipation, he looked towards Betrand Potter and, rolling up the map in his pocket, headed off towards the nearest set of doors. No doubt there were still some goodies to salvage-the other looters and scavengers wouldn't have picked the place clean just yet. Passing along the rows of fogged-up doors and windows, he found a likely-looking pane of glass, on the other side of which mannequins sporting the latest Halicarnan styles could be seen. His torch was enough to break the fragile glass and in moments he'd snuck in, his boots crunching softly on the broken shards.

The street returned to its previous sombre ambience, save for the crackle of small spot-fires, the groaning of damaged metal and the far-off sounds of gunfire and shouting.

Then, inevitably, there was movement once more.

Five men ambled down the street, kicking aside scraps of debris and conversing in low, yet excited tones. All were bearing large rucksacks over their backs, bulging with ill-gotten gains and stolen merchandise. Semoln was famous for its high number of upper-class retail outlets, and whatever got sold there was worth a hefty amount anywhere. The perks of being an Inner Colony world.

One of the men pulled the cap off the top of one of Dramus' popular champagnes and swigged it down like it was water. He finished about half before pulling back with a contented gasp. "Ahhh, now that's the stuff. You know, I saw those high-class punks drinking this shit in their fancy restaurants for about two hundred credits a pop." He barked a short, shrill laugh. "Now we get it for free!"

Another man, dark-skinned and huge, made a lunge for the bottle. "Gimme some of that hooch! You got most of it back at the alehouse-"

"Hey, why don't you go f-"

The self-proclaimed leader of the group, a bulky man with cropped red hair, grabbed the pair of men and shoved them apart. "Shut your mouths! Keep it down, you never know when there might be people about." As if on cue, a soft sound, something like the falling of a vase, echoed. Coming out of the darkened recesses of the shopping centre. As one, the five men turned their attention that way, raising their eyebrows and heads interchangeably.

The red-headed man's name was Terence Wylie. A former ODST of the 11th Shock Troopers, he'd left after one too many disputes and fights amongst his unit and come to Esvorl IV. More than anything, that had been what kept him as a lowly private all those years in the 11th. Despite his hot-headed nature and extreme love for violence, Wylie was a competent solider. Being booted out of the unit hadn't changed that. He knew how to fire a weapon and survive in combat. That made him more dangerous than most of the looters and thugs on the streets-and indeed, in this little clique of his.

He'd just finished his tour in the Klaatis asteroid belt, an ugly skirmish that had cost the lives of most men in his platoon. Not to mention some nasty plasma burns and a needle rifle spike to his right shoulder. After being discharged from the infirmary of the destroyer _Bethlehem, _he was pissed and itching for a fight. He had found it in the form of a fellow Helljumper, by the name Edward Buck, also of the 11th. A gunnery sergeant with more than his share of fights, he'd taken Wylie down in about ten seconds, taking care to only knock him out and not deal excessive injury. Numerous witnesses from multiple squads all testified that Buck had just been having a quiet drink in the ship's commissary when Wylie had came in and shoved him-first by accident, then with vitriol. Too bad that the gunny had possessed a wicked right hook. In the end, he was discharged, and Buck simply reprimanded. And here he was.

Inwardly, Terence swore he'd find Buck again one day and make the son of a bitch pay in blood.

Baring a set of yellowed teeth, Wylie pulled the M6 pistol from an illegal holster on his hip and cocked it. "Hear that? Sounds like we have some fellow citizens partaking of some of our grand city's merchandise." He licked his lips. "In there, then, and quietly. Find out who it is first-could be more of those jackass cops or jarheads, in which case we bug out. If it ain't, then just take them down nice and quick. But if there's any women…" He grinned, an ugly light in his eyes. "Might have some fun with 'em first. Move up."

The gang of thugs proceeded into the shopping centre, pulling out their own personal weapons. There was more fun to be had, and they sure as hell weren't going to miss it.

The vase had looked nice, but was in the way of something even better: a set of golden chrono-watches, recent inventions that conveyed time across different star-systems. They were basically high-priced versions of interstellar communication units, but that hadn't stopped the rich and affluent of Dramus from snapping them up. Zachary had tried to sneak a hand past the vase, but it had toppled from the slight brushing of his wrist and smashed upon the floor. Not exactly inconspicuous, but who the hell was he going to disturb? No classy gents shopping here, _thanks very much._

Pocketing his loot, he swept a jaundiced eye around for more goodies. This was the jewellery and perfume department on the sixth floor. Normally the doors on the stairs would have been locked but something had exploded and a vast hole in the ceiling and collapsed rubble had made a nice little ramp that led upward about six storeys. Avoiding some nasty cuts from debris, here he was, doing some casual shopping.

Moving his flashlight around the silent shelves and aisles, he spotted a sign through the motes of swirling dust: MEN'S ATTIRE. Perfect. The best stuff would be through there. Skirting a broken cleaning unit, which was still sparking dangerously, he passed under the sign and into the room beyond.

The room had a central desk and checkout counter at its heart, and from there it was divided into four different sections-formal, semi-formal, casual and the latest designer fashions. He headed straight for the desk, for the money that he knew would still be there. Vaulting over the bench like the fences he had scaled in his youth, Zachary spotted the cash register on the other side and pulled out his breaker tools, which he had conveniently located at the security guard's desk.

Unfortunately, this one was a little more difficult than the others he'd come across. There was some sort of backup lock that put the clamps on as soon as he'd bypassed the first. A few attempts to dislodge it failed to work. A vicious frown plastered itself on his face as he wrangled with the lock, willing his breaker to work. All of a sudden, there was a _snap, _and he stared dumbfounded at the two pieces of bisected metal in his hands. The lock had held firm.

"_Fucking shit!" _he cursed loudly, and then dealt the lock a swift kick out of sheer frustration. Another snap-this time from the lock. His scowl became replaced by a sheepish grin, feeling a little silly from his outburst. Pulling the register open, he bent down and began shoveling the cash into his recently-acquired bag. Then-

"_Thought I heard something…."_

Voices.

Seized by sudden panic, Zachary dropped right below the desk and huddled beneath it, his breath sounding absurdly loud in the confined space. He had no idea how it was, but cops, looters, marines, whatever-the chances of them being friendly were very low. Best to stay here for the present.

The voices were growing louder now, and they sounded rough. Unpleasant. He wondered how it was that he could judge whether someone meant to do him ill or not, simply from the sound of their voice. He had no doubts in this case.

At long last, he heard footsteps, and shrank even further beneath the desk. He bumped a shoebox, causing a slight noise, and inwardly swore. By now he could hear exactly what was being said.

"You're sure it came from this way?" a man inquired, his voice soft, yet ocean-deep.  
"Sure I am, 'sides, where else would anyone go? This place is chock-full of shiny stuff. Best take we've had yet." The second man had a whiny, nasal voice, punctuated by an occasional sniff. He must have had a cold.

The first man grunted, obviously unimpressed. "Hmph. Well, get your gun out. You see anyone where they're not supposed to be, you shoot 'em." The quiet rasping click of firearms being drawn. Then the sounds of moving feet. They were getting closer to his hiding place. Zachary didn't dare move, let alone breathe.

One set of footsteps faded and moved away, but the other was headed straight for him. The man must've had the exact same idea he'd had-the cash register. He wasn't going to find much, except a terrified twenty-year old. That same twenty-year old that was completely unarmed.

The sounds of movement stopped, and he heard the desk above him creak. The man was obviously leaning down, to have a rummage through the gap underneath. Where he would end up discovering him, and in all likelihood put a bullet in him. Zachary thought frantically. What if he tried hitting him with the flashlight? But a blow to the hand wouldn't stop him….What if he tried to slip away, or made a run for it? He would still have time to shoot him, or his partner would hunt him down.

A dusky hand came into view, and his heart-rate skyrocketed. He shuffled back, pushing with his feet until he was squashed against the back wall. The hand crept closer, undeterred.

Closer, closer. He shut his eyes and screwed up his face, his mind awash with prayers, swears and half-thoughts. The hand was now only inches away-

A thunderous crash, the final tinkling of some expensive merchandise and a bray of congested laughter. "Oi, come check this out! Rack o' some pricey Earth shit, gotta be worth millions! Hit the jackpot right 'ere!"

Zachary could hardly believe his luck as the hand withdrew and the man let out a frustrated sigh as he went to join his companion. Surely some God somewhere, somehow, had answered his wishes and granted him a reprieve. He sure as hell wasn't going to waste it. Waiting until he was sure the man had left, he slowly moved out from behind the desk, being sure to keep his head down. Counting to three, he quickly raised his head and ducked it again swiftly. No-one in sight. He had a chance to get out while the getting was good.

Slinking over to the other side of the counter, he poked his head up, his nose brushing the cold marble of the bench. His eyes spotted a series of coat-racks, still covered with their wares. It was suitably out of the way, and a bargain discount tag told him they were low in value. No way would they look over here. Visualising what he was about to do in his mind, Zachary rose into a crouch and, with a swift motion, leaped over the counter. His boot cracked on the surface and he swore under his breath. Dashing over to the racks, he huddled behind them. Tatters of dust cascaded off them, and for one horrible moment he thought he was going to sneeze. He ceased breathing again.

Dimly, he heard the pair conversing in low voices. One said something, to which the other one gave a hearty guffaw. The noise of various valuables being piled onto a hard surface of some kind, then the squeak of wheels. Probably a trolley or some other kind of conveyance. The noise carried to the entrance and quickly died. The men had gone. Zachary breathed a hushed sigh of relief.

He had no idea how long he waited, but he was aware of each passing second, with nothing to occupy himself except the thumping of his heart and the rattled gasping of his breathing, sounding appallingly loud. After a few minutes of this, he checked himself and shook his head. It had been a close shave, but he was fine. He was more than fine-he was now in possession of thousands in stolen merchandise. Just one look at his treasure trove strengthened his resolve.

It was time to leave.

After taking one last look around, he swiftly made for the archway that led out to the second floor, the collapsed ceiling and freedom. He made it out and went round the large cube-shaped rack of shoes just in front of it.

And ran smack bang into Wylie, falling on his ass.

The larger man was built solid, for sure, but even he hadn't been expecting a young man around his height to come right around the pillar and run into him. He squawked in surprise and stumbled backwards, going for his gun. "You little shit-"

Unfortunately for the ex-ODST, he backed right into the failed cleaning unit, which was still spitting white-hot sparks like a welder. He gave a roar of pain as he felt them burn right through the leg of his jeans and scorch the skin beneath. Reaching out a hand to steady himself, he instead fell right down, clutching at his burns.

Zachary gasped, partly in shock and partly because he felt like he'd run into a truck. Not even taking time to wonder where the hell the man had come from, he got to his feet and dashed off into the darkened recesses of the sixth floor, away from the ramp. Swivelling his head desperately, looking for a point of egress, he saw a fire escape door tucked away behind a set of changing booths. That was his getaway. Flinging the door open (_thank Christ it ain't locked), _he took off down the darkened steps.

Swearing at the top of his lungs, Wylie managed to shove the pain of his leg aside and shakily got up, fumbling at his gun which had fallen to one side. Kicking the cleaner venomously, he bellowed, "Shaun! Carson!"

The pair of men who had previously been ransacking the men's attire section game galloping up from the fifth floor, where they had been taking inventory and keeping guard. Carson, the muscular black-skinned man, had his illegal T-32 semiautomatic pistol cocked at shoulder height. "What's going on?" he rumbled. His partner, the sniveling man known as Shaun, was close behind, a sawn-off shotgun clenched in his hands.

Wylie jabbed a finger at the door. "Some punk-ass kid came outta nowhere and took me by surprise! Knocked me down." Not exactly true, but they didn't need to know that. "Find the little bastard and blow his head off. Where's Heuller and Brandish?" Carson nodded towards the door, a slow, malignant smile spreading over his features. "Near the sporting goods centre, right where the kid is heading. They'll smoke him no trouble."

Wylie shot him a glare. "Well _in case they don't, _take Shaun and go follow him. I'll stay out front and make sure he don't escape. Now go!" The pair took off, while Wylie slowly and painfully made his way down the ramp.

Meanwhile, Zachary was still running helter-skelter down the stairs, the light from his torch bouncing crazily off the walls. His breath sounded ridiculously loud in the otherwise silent space, but it was nothing compared to the hammering _thump-thump-thump _of his heart. He needed to get out. Now. After descending a few more flights, he stopped as his torch reflected off something metal. A directory sign. There was only one floor left-sporting goods-before he hit the ground floor. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pelted down the last few steps to the door leading out to the ground floor, and freedom. Whipping up his torch, the grin on his face died suddenly. There was a sturdy lock on the door, a metal lattice equipped with a keypad. There was no way in hell he was breaking through that.

Fighting against the panic rising in his chest, Zachary backpedalled, and made his way back to the second floor accessway, just as he heard a _bang _at the top of the stairwell, followed by running feet. Not wasting time, he bolted through the door and slammed it shut behind him, turning the lock. He spotted a security guard's chair beside the door and shoved that under the knob. Hopefully it would buy him some time.

The sporting goods department wasn't very big, but it was packed to the hilt with shelves, racks and demonstration arenas, all little islands circumscribed by glowing displays and safety netting. He saw an advertisement for vitamin boosters, a portable grab-ball set, adaptable weights; all of it made his heads spin. Zachary shook his head to clear it and shot a look at the directory sign hanging on the wall. According to the diagram, he had around two hundred metres of department store to get past before reaching the stairs that would take him down to the ground floor. It would be a simple matter to break the security screens that had originally barred his way. He made for the nearest aisle and began to hurry down it. After a few seconds, he threw a nervous look over his shoulder to check if his pursuers had come through the door yet.

This action saved his life, as the bullet that had been meant for his skull narrowly missed, whizzing past his shoulder and thudding into the far wall. His ears ringing from the noise, Zachary gaped and about faced. There was an Asian man standing about twenty metres away from him, with a crappy old M6J carbine trained on him. "Don't you fuckin' well move, kid. Or your brains learn to fly." The man moved closer, still cautious of this wild-eyed youth. His lip curled as he saw the bulging fabric of his bag."Thinkin'of robbing us of some tasty loot? Not a chance." He raised his voice. "Heuller! Get your fat butt over here!"

"What? What's going on?"

With the man temporarily distracted by the summoning of his partner, Zachary slipped a hand into the bag and grasped the band of a chrono-watch. It was heavier than it looked. He brought his hand out and had it slump loosely by his side.

The Asian man finally managed to get the message across, and glared at him. "Now put your hands on your head, you little shit. Don't try anything funny." Then his eyes narrowed. "What's that you've got in your hand?" Zachary held it up meekly. "A chrono-watch. It's worth a lot. More than what you'll find down here." That wasn't quite true, but what would this guy know?

It worked. The man licked his lips, and avarice flared in his eyes. "Give it here." He only had eyes for the gleaming chrono-watch, quietly ticking.

"Sure thing." He threw it overarm, and the accessory hit the man in the forehead. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell down, rifle clattering on the floor. Zachary sprinted forward and picked it up, the bulky firearm feeling unfamiliar to his hands. The closest he'd come to holding a weapon like this was back during high school, when air rifles had been all the rage. But it was loaded, and he finally had a means to defend himself. _Apart from chrono-watches. _He smiled smugly at the unconscious man, and kicked him in the head for good measure. "Prick."

"Hey you!" The man's partner, Heuller, appeared from an adjunct aisle and pulled out his pistol. "Where do you think you're-"

With no time to think, only to act, Zachary brought up the rifle and pulled the trigger. The heavy slug drilled into the man's chest, and he died with an explosion of blood spurting out from his chest. Heuller wheezed out his last few breaths and lay still, a puddle of his own life force slowly spreading out from under him. His eyes glazed over, yet they continued to stare at him with an expression of shock and surprise. Accusing him.

Zachary froze. He had not meant to kill the man. He had never meant to kill anyone, or hurt them in the slightest. He had just wanted to steal a few things; where was the harm? Everyone else was doing it, it couldn't possibly be wrong. But now the man was dead. Why had the fool tried to stop him? Why had he stopped, shouted, pulled out his pistol? He would still be alive if he hadn't. And he wouldn't have become a murderer-no. He wasn't a murderer. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…But the man was still dead. For the first time since he had left his former life for one of destitution and the streets, he felt a shiver of regret and terror crawl up his spine.

The bang of the stairwell door opening shocked him out of his funk, and he resumed his frantic run. He didn't look back as Carson and Shaun burst in, guns sweeping and looking to kill. All he could do was run, carrying the rifle awkwardly in one hand.

The two men ran over to Brandish, who was still out cold. Carson shook him roughly. "Brandish! Wake up, fool." When he remained unconscious, the black man slapped him in the face. Brandish came awake in an instant, and felt his cheek, bewildered. "One side of my face is numb: what happened?"

"No idea, "Carson said. "Now where'd that kid go? You see him? I assume you did, else you wouldn't have been lying here on the floor, out like a light." Brandish glared at him. "Hey, the little punk took me by surprise! He's a lot stronger than he looks…"

"Whatever!" Carson pulled him up on his feet, and cocked his pistol. "We're gonna go find him and put a bullet in him. Where's Heuller?"

"Over 'ere." Shaun pointed to their companion's limp body, sprawled against a shelf of holo-dart sets. "Looks like 'e got iced with your weapon, Brandish."

Carson sniffed derisively. "He deserves it if he gets killed that easily. We'll come back here for his body later; can't have the authorities identifying him later on. For now-"he moved forward with intent-"let's find him. Split up and go three ways, cut him off at the door! But be careful, he's armed."" Shaun and Brandish both nodded and vanished into the wider stacks. Carson moved down the centre aisle, flicking the safety off his gun.

Meanwhile, Zachary was pelting down the central aisle of the department, the displays flashing past him. It had been relatively smooth going; unfortunately, the next hundred metres or so were compartmentalised into three sections. The first was a series of television screens lined up on either side, showcasing highlights from various sports. The second was a raised section meant for mixed martial arts, and the third was a big statue of Bertrand Potter. He had likenesses' all over the shopping centre. All of these would slow him down. But he had no choice.

Another bullet roared past him, and smashed into something made of wood, which blew apart under its force. He increased his pace, his heart pounding in his ears. The lactic acid in his legs was building up, making them burn and ache. Panic lent him speed, but he couldn't keep running for much longer. His breath was ragged, and sweat drenched his hair.

He had just entered the television section when suddenly he tripped, stubbing his toe upon the tiles and thudding painfully onto the floor. His leg also twinged; he had most likely sprained it. Zachary resisted the urge to scream at this horrible situation, and instead tried to get his ass back up. On a screen near his head, a burly sports coach bellowed, "You've got to lift! There are no excuses!"

_Oh, shut up, _he thought, and shakily stood. He could see the exit, far ahead. If he could just reach it-

A roar, a flash-and this time, the bullet burrowed into his shoulder, eliciting an explosion of pain. He gave a raw-throated yell, and immediately brought up a hand to the wound, which was already darkening the fabric of his jacket an ugly crimson. He would bleed out later if he didn't get that seen to. But for now…

He swung around, and, biting back the tremendous pain, pulled the trigger on the rifle. The big black man who had shot him swore viciously as they narrowly missed him, and ducked behind a plinth to reload his own weapon. A brief respite, but soon it would be back to being shot at. He needed to buy some time. He looked around desperately for anything he could use.

The long shelf which held the televisions on his right was flimsy, made of some sort of plastic material. If he could tip that…He hobbled over to the corner of the shelf and started pushing at it. It was one heavy motherfucker, and the strain on his shoulder nearly made him drop to the floor and wail. The shelf groaned, and budged slightly, but would not topple.

He knew it would only be moments before the man moved forward and found him. He had to do this _now! _He noticed a small hole in the shelf's paneling, possibly for screwing bolts or something. With a growing idea, Zachary jammed the tip of the rifle into this recess, and applied all of his weight to the rifle, attempting to unbalance the entire shelf. He could see it moving. It was almost done-

The man appeared out of nowhere, surprisingly fast for someone of his size. He placed his sausage-like finger inside the trigger guard, his eyes filled with malicious glee. "Say goodnight." He fired.

At the last moment, Zachary ducked, and the bullet actually skimmed the top of his head, leaving a smell of burnt hair. But the bullet kept going, and slammed into the shelf. Something important must have been broken, because the entire assembly started creaking like an old man, and began to fall, inexorably downward. The man's eyes widened and the gun slipped from his grasp. He gave a single, high-pitched scream, as the shelf collapsed on him and the televisions hit the floor, each adding the sounds of their own screens cracking to the din. Zachary only just managed to escape being pulped. Dust filled the air, and he coughed until it cleared. A small hill of debris now occupied the whole space, and a single, ebony arm, turned pale white by the dust and plaster, twitched slightly. He fought to keep himself from throwing up, and turned to run.

Only to find himself unable to take another step. His exhaustion, coupled with the bullet wound, had drained all vim and vigour from his frame. Suddenly bathed in a cold sweat, he sank to his knees, barely able to keep himself awake. Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision, and his eyelids juddered. He so very wanted to sleep…If only he could keep himself awake! Something to just keep him going, even if for a little while-

Then he remembered. The next section was designed for MMA exhibitions, and-as he knew from his various trips to this same shopping centre, there were often dietary supplements and vitamin powders intended for the competitors to keep going and provide exhibitions for the patrons. Sometimes they suffered injuries or fatigue, however, which meant that they needed something stronger…and said "stronger" things were kept close to the fighting ring.

It was crazy, insane; but it might just be his ticket out of there. Fixing this possibility in his mind, Zachary half-crawled, half-hobbled his way forward. There were still two men left, and that didn't include the one with red hair that he'd nearly been killed by. In fact, even if he did end up finding the stims and reinvigorating himself, the odds still weren't good. Oddly enough, though, he was fine with that. After all, what kind of life did he have beyond this? He was content to die, as long as he did it fighting to stay alive. The absurdity of this thought almost made him laugh.

Luckily, the gap between the two sections was not large, and he soon found himself ailing around to the right of the raised fighting arena, using one hand to steady himself upon the rubbery surface of the brightly coloured puzzle mats. The other he used to put pressure upon the wound in his shoulder, attempting to stem the bleeding. Just ahead, there was a small set of stairs leading up to the arena, and beside this was a small, white container with the red cross on it. The stims, if there were any, would be found in there.

He stumbled, and fell to his knees, hands scrabbling for the latch on the container. He was lucky it wasn't locked. The lid flipped open, and there they were. Amidst small bottles of pills and soluble powders, six plastic-wrapped, green syringes. Small serial numbers along their sides indicated their manufacturing information, but it didn't matter here. He grabbed three, shoved two in his pockets and placed another to his neck with a blood-slicked, trembling hand. Once he had found the right vein, he depressed the switch, and the luminescent green mix drained into him.

A violent trembling wracked his body, and stars swam before his eyes. A buzzing filled his ears; he'd heard that stims for first-timers were nothing to mess with, but this was fucking _intense. _But eventually, the shaking stopped, and new life coursed through him. He actually managed to stand upright. It was like someone had let the air back into the room. He almost grinned at this sudden, unexpected vitality.

But there was no time to waste. Zachary grabbed the rifle in both hands and sprinted around the arena, heading for the exit on the other side. After that, it would be past the big statue, and then freedom.

He veered away from the raised section, and headed through the arch that lead that way-

The rat-faced man Shaun snarled something unintelligible as he swung the butt of the sawn-off at his head, materialising from an aisle just off to the right. Zachary cursed right back at him as he raised an arm to deflect it, accidentally grasping the barrel. It felt light as a feather. Was this the effect of the stims? It had to be. He wrenched his arm back, and sent the gun flying through the air. Shaun gaped at this show of strength, before Zachary's fist shot out and winded him in the guts. He barely had time to double over before he was grabbed roughly by the back of the head and had his face smashed into the wall. A bloody smear from his newly-broken nose was left behind as the man sighed, falling unconscious.

Zachary could hardly believe what had happened. True, he'd never been a slouch when it came to defending himself, but this was something else. He almost felt…superhuman. What had been in that syringe? Some kind of augmenter? He hadn't heard anything good about them-mind you, that might just be medical scaremongering. In any case, he had no time to ponder it. He needed to get out, while he still could.

He walked, now strongly and confidently, through the third and final section. Standing about twenty feet tall, the statue of Bertrand Potter, who had possessed an ample paunch and a cheerful face, stared benevolently down at him. He was cast as wearing a business suit that was at least a few decades extinct in the business sector of Esvorl IV. For reasons he could not fathom, Zachary felt a wave of sympathy for the long-dead entrepreneur. Perhaps it was because that, unlike many other corrupt and self-serving corporations on the planet, this shopping centre had never been associated with them. It didn't seem fair that it should be ravaged by looters and thieves. _Then again, _he thought wryly, _maybe I'm not in the best position to talk about that. _The bag of ill-gotten gains still swung from his shoulder.

Swiftly navigating around the statue, he saw salvation ahead-the stairs that led downward, to the ground floor of the centre. There was a security panel of toughened glass that barred his way, but this would be no problem, particularly considering his newfound strength. Without preamble, he stepped right up to the glass, ignored the still-flashing red alarm on the wall next to it and swung with all of his strength.

To his agony-filled surprise, the brute strength the syringe had given him must have dissipated quickly, because his fist merely jarred against the pane of glass and left deep grazes on his knuckles, which immediately welled up with blood. Jamming the fist inside his mouth to keep himself from crying out, he spent a minute fighting back the white centre of pain that flared in his mind, then slowly reached for the rifle.

The first few strikes did nothing at all, merely rebounding off the glass. But on the fifth a few jagged cracks appeared. This would normally have been a good thing, but the fatigue was creeping up again, and his vision blurred intermittently. Taking a deep breath, he shakily raised the rifle and aimed at the crack. He would have to blast his way through. He just hoped he had enough bullets left.

Just before he could pull the trigger, he heard a noise. But to describe it as such would be like classifying an ocean as a large body of water, or a sun as a hot place. It was a smashing noise, in the manner of an entire tree being uprooted and tossed aside like a twig. It echoed throughout the entire floor and seemed to be coming from the door he had entered through. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. It sounded nothing less than a savage rizax bear had shouldered its way through the door. But that was impossible…what could it be?

He wasn't hanging around to find out. He turned back around to fire at the glass.

Only to be blinded by a muzzle flash from the other side. He instinctively dropped the rifle held up his hands, which fortunately protected his face from the shattered glass that bit and dug into his skin. He yelled in agony as the splinters worked their way in, but his brain contained but one thought: _the rifle._

He blinked away the spots in his vision, saw the rifle lying on the floor, lunged for it-

The cold barrel of a gun placed itself against the side of his head. And a voice that dripped with cold fury whispered: "_Up."_

He did as he was told, slowly and deliberately. No point in pissing off someone that was obviously close to the edge any more. Nevertheless, he couldn't see a happy ending to this in sight. Slowly, Zachary raised his head and locked eyes with his assailant. Surprise, surprise-it was the burly man with the red hair, the one that he'd crossed paths with at the start of this mess. _How the hell did he get down here?_

The question must have been in his face, because the red-haired man snorted. "I headed back out front. Came up the stairs when I heard the shots." He spat to one side. "You think you were going to get away? No-one that does that to me is gettin' a lick of mercy. As I'm about to demonstrate." He leered at him, and then looked past him. "About damn time!"

Zachary twisted his head around in time to see the Asian man and Shaun, both looking worse for wear, limping up the aisle. He had to stop looking, though, as the butt of the pistol came crashing against his head, sending an explosion of pain through his already-exhausted mind. "Eyes front, damnit. Don't you try anything." He raised his voice. "Where the fuck did you two end up? And what the fuck was that noise?" Zachary frowned. _If it wasn't him…_

Shaun spoke up, his voice now even more of a nasally whine due to his broken nose. "The bastard broke me bloody nose, tha's what! Came at me like a goddamn Mars rig-"

"Spare me, "the man hissed, and swung his attention to the Asian man. "And you, Brandish?"

Brandish looked down at his feet, and muttered something about a chrono-watch. Zachary fought to suppress a giggle. "Carson and Heuller bought it as well. Thanks to our friend here." He had an ugly look in his eyes that spoke of his innate desire to cut Zachary's balls off with a blunt knife. "Let me cut something in him before you put a round in his head, Wylie." Zachary's blood ran cold, his brief humor dissipating.

But Wylie didn't seem to be listening. "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, am I surrounded by idiots?" he snarled to himself. "Can't depend on anyone…"

Before Zachary could stop himself, the words came out of his mouth: "Does that include you or not?"

Wylie's fist thudded into his stomach, knocking the wine out of him. He barely had time to register that blow before the red-haired maniac flat-palmed him between the eyes. He actually felt like he was falling apart-his vision swam and a dull roaring filled with ears. There was a black void in his chest. All of a sudden he was on the floor, and Wylie was kicking him repeatedly in the ribs. Something snapped in his chest, and a spurt of vomit came from his mouth. And all the while Wylie kept on kicking, kicking, and kicking.

He must have blacked out, because he came to as he was hauled to his feet by Wylie, and then shoved towards Brandish, who pinned his arms so he couldn't move. Blearily, he realised that Wylie was taking aim at his head, a feral grin on his face all the while. "Hold him steady!"

_Well. Looks like this is it._

Wylie's finger tensed on the trigger. He heard a strange whistling noise.

_Mum, I'm sorry-_

Suddenly, the grip on his arms slackened, and he was able to twist free. He turned, to see Brandish taking a few steps back, his mouth slightly open and his eyes glazed over. Shaun shot a bewildered glance at him, and Wylie snarled in fury and confusion. "Goddamnit Brandish! I said to hold him steady!" His gun never strayed from Zachary's head.

Meanwhile, the Asian man's hands twitched towards his back, as if trying to reach for something. His mouth tried to form words, but failed. Still gaping, he dropped to his knees and sprawled on the floor, dead as a doornail. Embedded in his back was a knife; strangely bent, with a brown handle. It was far bigger than any conventional knife, almost the size of a small rifle, and a serial coding ran along the handle's side. It was military.

The three of them stared in horrified silence at Brandish's corpse, as the knife glinted dully in the dim light of the security alarms. Zachary still had trouble concentrating upon anything other than the immense pain of his beaten body, yet even he heard the voice. "I'll be wanting that back." It was husky yet smooth, like liquid, yet underneath all of it was a particular tone that sent shivers up all of their spines. It said, plain and simple, that whoever it was liked killing. Had enjoyed killing Brandish. And would, in all likelihood, enjoy killing them.

Wylie, now looking like a stunned mullet, jabbed a finger at Shaun. "Go! Find out who it is and kill 'em!" His eyes, previously filled with bloodlust, now radiated fear. "Now, I said!"

"Oh, "the voice tutted, "y'all don't want to be doing that." It was impossible to tell where it was coming from, other than in front of them. "Otherwise, things will _definitely _get messy. Right now? It's only likely. Ain't certain. So, nobody move, and nobody gets hurt." There was a small pause, and then the voice returned, sounding somewhat reluctant this time. "That's a promise. I guess."

Wylie looked half-convinced, like he was thinking it over. But Shaun shook his head emphatically, like a cornered animal. "The hell wi' that! I'm getting the fuck out of here!" Something about the voice made him feel as weak and powerless as a newborn baby, and all he wanted was to get away from it. He ran towards the shattered security door, but Wylie raised his gun at him threateningly. "You're good right there, Shaun."

Shaun, not a man of intellectual dexterity to begin with and panicked to boot, did an immediate reverse and pelted away into the darkness. From that same darkness, came a heavy sigh, ridiculously theatrical. "Well, you asked for it." There was a scraping noise from higher up. Seconds later there was a gasp, followed by gunfire. It had to be Shaun. "No! Stay back, you fuckin' devil! You-arrghh!"

There was a sound like the crunching of celery, and then nothing. Silence apart from their breathing, sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet. Wylie's instinctual fear had gone, replaced by a blank, nameless dread. Zachary himself wasn't feeling too flash.

A muffled _whump, _and something came sliding out of the darkness. It was Shaun's corpse, with his neck looking for all the world like a floppy old sock. His eyes had rolled back into his skull, and the stench of his voided bowels filled the air. And as if that wasn't enough, something materialised out of the darkness, like something from one of Hell's wet dreams. It looked human enough with two arms and two legs, but something like this monstrous phantom couldn't possibly be flesh and blood homo sapiens.

It was a man in armor, like a medieval knight. But what made this armor unique was that the helmet, which normally would've been a smooth, rounded golden dome surface, like a bubble, had been scarred and disfigured by an etching that the Angel of Death would have been envious of. It smiled at them both, and in an instant, Zachary saw his entire life flash before his eyes…and how it would end, all on the shiny surface of that skull.

It swaggered forward, looking like any other person out for a stroll. Purposeful, loping strides. The voice, now that it was closer, sounded even more terrifying, if that were possible. "So I gave you fair warning. I'm under orders to fulfill that doctrine, even though personally I believe it's a pile of moa shit. Sure, maybe you two jokers aren't exactly hardline Innies-"the skull momentarily tipped to look at Zachary, then Wylie-"but hey, at this point in time, lines get blurred." Malice was building in the voice. "People run when they're not supposed to." It knelt to retrieve its knife, yanking it from Brandish's back with a sickening _shlick. _"Accidents happen." It pointed the knife at Zachary. "You're first."

Just as the creature's arm tensed back, however, a beep was heard, and it swore quietly before switching to another audio channel. After about ten seconds, the armored giant turned its attention back to them. "You two aren't from the same gang, are you? My partner is a little more perceptive than me, it seems." That same grudging, reluctant tone was evident. _Anything that gets in the way of killing, right?_

Zachary saw his chance and leapt at it. "No, we're not. I was in here trying to hide when this guy and his friends tried to kill me." Wylie gasped with rage at the sheer tattletale nature of it all. "He came at us first! What, I'm not allowed to defend myself? Fucking wind-up toy soldier." He spat on the ground contemptuously. "Fucking circus freaks parading around in shiny suits of armor. Your lot make me wanna puke." He had completely forgotten about Zachary, it seemed.

The vitriol in his tone, plus his use of words, made Zachary perform a double-take. He looked closely at the armor, the helmet, the gauntlets, the knee guards-he had seen it before, in military publications on the street. At the time, it had been a standard green with modular components, but there was no mistaking it. Standing before them was a Spartan.

Wylie's outburst just seemed to amuse the Spartan-if that's what it was-facing them. "Insults? That's original. Never heard them before. Careful, though. Maybe I'll get upset." He idly twirled the knife. "And who knows what I might do?" He turned to look at the volatile red-head. "Lemme guess. You served? Helljumpers I'm thinking, considering your dreadfully rude behaviour." His voice became sardonically melancholy. "And you haven't even got to know me yet."

He bared his teeth, and pulled up the sleeve of his shoulder. A faded tattoo stood out from his skin: a flaming skull, encompassed by the shape of a SOEIV. In messy handwriting underneath this picture were the words _Feet First Into Hell. _Wylie pointed at the design. "Private, 11th Shock Troopers. I've heard the stories about you Spartans. You used some of ours as fucking guinea pigs so you could tone up for the big fight." He laughed harshly, with more than a little hysteria behind it. "And here I was thinking we were fighting for the same damn thing! Play the hero all you want, freak, but you'll never be like us. You'll never be anything other than soulless, cybernetic machines. Your hands are stained now, and nothing'll wash them clean." He spat once more at the Spartan's feet.

The Spartan was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, quieter than before, "Maybe that's all true. But if it is, well…" He stepped forward. "What's a little more blood here and there?" He glanced at Zachary. "Step aside, civvie. Inter-unit dispute to work out here. Rules and regs to consider. Etcetera, etcetera."

But before the super soldier could get close enough, Wylie lunged out, grabbed him in a headlock and shoved his gun under his chin. The man was desperate, now. He used the other hand to point at the Spartan, who had tensed into a combat stance. "Come any closer and I'll blow his head off! Don't think I fuckin' won't!" The barrel jammed painfully into the hollow of his neck.

The man in armor did not put his knife away, or put his hands up to placate the antagonised ex-ODST. Instead, he simply muttered, "That's your choice. But one way or the other, you're not coming out of here alive."

_What?_

Wylie licked his lips, and squeezed the trigger. "Then come on. But you're not taking me alive. I'd rather shoot myself than be killed by you, _demon." _His voice now became mocking. "That's what the aliens call you, right? Well, who can blame 'em? Maybe you're human under those suits, but only in name. Demons and monsters, that's what you really are-"

"Enough of this song and dance, "the Spartan said, clearly bored. "I get it: you hate us, we hate you, yadda yadda. Now then, are you gonna come quietly, or what?"

"Fuck. You."

The skull-faced giant shrugged. "Works for me. Jorge? Make your entrance, big man."

A shadow fell over them, and Zachary swallowed as he felt the presence of something massive behind them. Wylie started to turn, but it was already too late.

A pair of massive hands, clad in green-yellow metal, lunged through the glass, shattering what was left of it and grabbing Wylie around the waist. He had time for one last, despairing wail before he was pulled back through the glass and down the stairs. There was a sickening crunch, and then quiet. His gun clattered to the floor in all of this.

Zachary, still shell-shocked by his traumatic ordeal, gazed at the Spartan, who now had his arms folded. "Were you-"he swallowed-"were you really going to let him kill me?"

He laughed, a scary sound. "Well, you might say it was…fifty-fifty." He laughed again.

Zachary passed out.

****************************************************  
Emile-A239, Spartan-III, sniffed with laughter as the young, looking-like-a-piece-of-shit civvie dropped to the ground without a word. Mind you, he looked like he'd taken a nasty beating from those other chumps, two of which he'd found dead on his way through the sports centre after exiting the inner ventilation system (with quite the bang, he had to add). Part of him had a grudging admiration for the kid, who appeared to be nothing else than another gung-ho kid looking to make a fast buck off the dissolution of the city. Unarmed, and having outwitted and killed at least two? That took some gumption.

Sheathing his overworked knife, he carefully stepped over the unconscious kid and picked his way through the broken glass. At the bottom of the stairs, his fellow Noble teammate and Spartan Jorge-052 was checking the serial coding ink on the back of the mouthy former Helljumper's neck, and running it against the service database he'd pulled up on his HUD. The man was stone dead, of course-Jorge being a living, breathing death threat and all. The older man looked up, and shook his head. "This one was discharged, all right, but he also had several outstanding warrants for his arrest. Robbery, armed robbery, assault and battery, homicide. Seems he didn't waste time once he quit the service. It looks like it's a tad redundant, now." The Hungarian sighed. "Reminds me that humans aren't exactly loveable themselves, next to the Covenant."

Emile snorted. "Don't waste your sympathy on him, big man. He picked a fight, and paid the consequences. Should've stayed focused on killing Covies instead of hating on Spartans." He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder. "Any idea what we should do with sleeping beauty back here? The nearest evac point is back near Obvensky Boulevard. Bit of a detour, but better than the alternative."

Jorge huffed at this. "And what exactly is that alternative, Emile? Leave him to die by himself, or at the hands of any other thugs roaming around? Or better yet, "dispose" of him in your usual, elegant style?"

The skull-faced Spartan shrugged passively. "Don't knock my style. You're no bed of roses yourself, chief." His tone was half-joking, half-serious. "I meant instead of taking him with us on our mission. Carter wants us to move light and swift, remember? And so does Ashton, though I'm feeling quite a bit less good about taking _his _say-so. Senile old bastard…"

That was enough of that, as far as the bear-like Spartan-II was concerned. He rose from Wylie's body, and lumbered up the stairs. "Stow it, Warrant Officer. Let's get this boy on his feet, and see what he knows. He might have intel that we can use."

"Oh, what's left to know?" Emile retorted scornfully. "This is Semoln district, hotbed of activity. There're three teams-you and me, Carter and Jun, Thom and Kat. We'll keep pressing inward from the north, target any Insurrectionist figures and, as my old drill sergeant used to say back on Onyx, fuck shit up. What the hell is some wet-behind-the-ears civvie with a hard-on for jewellery gonna be able to tell us?"

Jorge chose to avoid that question, and instead asked, "So what was Onyx like? I heard that you model threes trained under Mendez himself. I'm surprised the old bastard is still kicking." His partner shrugged moodily. "No worse than Reach, I suspect. But we had even less of a respite than you guys. Built as fire-and-forget weapons of mass destruction in a genocidal war, why should we have a chance to kick back with a beer?" He shook his head. "And they tell us that we were lucky to survive PROMETHEUS."

Sensing that the conversation had taken a turn for the morose, the Reach-born Spartan laid a hand on Emile's shoulder for a moment, and then returned to business. "Give him a stim. Make it as safe as possible." He crouched down, and removed his helmet, while Emile reached for a syringe in his tactical hard case. Before he could inject it, however, Emile stiffened. Jorge shot a glance at him. "What? What is it?"

Emile pointed at the supine Zachary. "Medical scan confirms it. This kid already injected himself with some sort of stimulant, but it's not in the database. Check his pockets." A quick rifle through his trouser pockets yielded a pair of syringes containing bright green liquid. Jorge couldn't believe his eyes. "_Nem lehet.."_

The Spartan-II's heavy brow narrowed. "This is an off-shoot of a popular Ferguson-class augmentor. A cocktail of different drugs, including adrenaline and other synthetic ingredients. God knows why it was here, but…" He stood. "This thing is dangerous. It's not as bad as a Rumbledrug, but given enough time and it will tear this kid apart from the inside out."

Emile was sceptical. "As bad as that? Come on, big man. How do you know about this?"

Jorge shook his head darkly. "I saw the effects of this stuff first-hand, during counterinsurgency operations on Hellas. Rebels ingested massive quantities of these drugs in an attempt to even the odds against Spartans." He vaguely remembered a short man, with messy brown hair, throwing Randall through a wall in a warehouse skirmish and breaking his own arms in the process. "It's no threat to us, but it will kill him if we don't do something."

Emile threw up his hands. "Well, what _can _we do? I didn't bring my stethoscope on this mission."

"Stop that, "Jorge snapped at the truculent Spartan. He thought for a few minutes. "There's a counter-agent that would safely contain the effects of the drug until it leaves his system. But it's extremely rare. Major hospitals would have it. One sec." He put on his helmet and accessed the map of the city on his HUD, and soon found the nearest hospital. "St. Alodia's Hospital would have what we're looking for. But…"

"But?"

Jorge de-polarised his visor, looked at his partner and grinned tightly. "It's neck-deep in Semoln. And that means we're taking him with us."

Emile's reaction was typical. A lengthy demonstration of profanity, followed by several dented walls, wholesale destruction of property and culminating in him stomping downstairs to smash any windows that remained intact. Jorge stood to one side and watched it all with a raised eyebrow. In the commotion, the kid woke up and blinked hazily. "What…? What's going on?"

Jorge knelt, and began treating his wounds. "Oh, him? He's had some bad news. But trust me, you're not going to like it any more than he is."

__


	4. Chapter 4

_The entire purpose of the S-III program was to craft super soldiers out of vengeful, nihilistic little kids. The obvious moral and ethical ramifications of this aside, it can be reasonably assumed that most if not all of the candidates for the program signed up with revenge as a motive. Revenge for their families, friends and burned planets. Emile never speaks of what he has lost, yet his behaviour fits all the hallmarks of a textbook case. I suspect that he has compartmentalised life into a very small space, and it is basically this: he may say he wants to win the war, but what he really wants is for the enemy to die._

-SPECWAR/GROUPTHREE/NOBLE Performance Reports, citing file N-63732/S-III/A239 (WARNING-ACCESS LOGGED; BYPASS SCHEME "OPEN SESAME"VERIFIED)

**1209 hours, 13****th**** of March, 2550 (UNSC Military Calendar)**

Kappa Indus System, Planet Esvorl IV

Dramus City, Halicarna

Kalec District

"You wanna hurry it up, Kat? We're kinda exposed, you know." In the darkness of the maintenance shaft, the second-in-command of Noble Team sighed inside her helmet, and not for the first time either.

Thom had never been good at being patient. Which, to an analytical and probing mind like hers, made no sense whatsoever. Anyone who was crazy or stupid enough to sign up for EOD or demo work usually hid it well with a cool head, ice-water for blood or some combination thereof. It was meant to be the ultimate in-joke of the UNSCDF: _here_, they'd say, _we'll let you play with things that go boom. Just be as cold as mercury when you're doing it, never mind how many you might take out in the blast that are on your side. Why worry about collateral damage when you can have napalm? _The trainees from Beta had gone into raptures of delight when Mendez had alluded to that, which was not the reaction he'd been expecting, if the gruelling three-hundred pull-ups that had followed had been any indication.__

It wasn't as though Kat had a long and resentful history with explosives. Her line of work meant she was safely on a ship or in a bunker when shit started to hit the fan. No, what _really _bugged her was that it was that sort of thinking that had led to the development of the Spartan-III program. After all, what better soldiers than children? They had all the vengeance and bloodthirstiness of adults minus all the musing about ethics or morality. Just point and shoot. Not that it was hard to get said kids to co-operate when they were fighting an enemy that was all mandibles, tentacles, hooves, fur and planet-destroying weapons. No human empathy required there.

On that side of the fence, that meant Thom was an exception, maybe the only exception, and for that she was glad he was there. Even if it did mean he never stopped running his mouth.

Still, perhaps there was some justification (though she'd never admit it to herself, much less verbalise it). Kalec District was calm, relatively, but splitting up from the rest of the team never sat well with her. She wasn't leader material. It meant getting distracted from all the little quirks and habits that came with her role as tech expert and cryptanalyst. While her talents for mission planning and construction were excellent, it was usually Carter who put them into action. Having to tag-team with Thom, the most unruly member of the team next to Emile, didn't set her at ease.

She was currently trying to navigate a duct system set into a wall, while Thom waited outside for her to bust the lock on the main doors. Every district in Dramus had its commercial aspects, but what Kalec really gave back to the metropolis was automated factories and machinery. Whilst many citizens objected to the constant activity, calling it disruptive and difficult to live with, the district got things done. Almost everything was automated, from the taxis, to the construction loaders, to the buildings themselves. Each one came with a security contingency in the case of city (or at least district) wide panic. Full lockdown would proceed at a signal transmitted by the city's superintendent AI, now safely removed from its data hive and in UNSC hands. Unfortunately, the damage was done, so to speak. Every aperture was sealed with steel plating and flexible blast mesh. It couldn't be hacked remotely, but maybe if they got inside...

Her MJOLNIR armour told her that there was a security interface, twelve metres ahead and five metres straight up. She breathed another sigh, this time of relief. She couldn't wait to be free of the suffocating, dusty confines of this duct. It was ten times harder in full-body armour. She fumbled her right hand, gained purchase on one side of the duct and pulled herself forward. Slowly.

Her COM channel clicked on again. 'Kat? You hearing me, or are you listening to Dramus' greatest hits? Oh, lemme guess, on today's adrenaline-pumping setlist we've got an old favourite, "Beta Females", which, as you might recall, caused quite a stir back in its day due to the fact it was an incredibly accurate take on just how _goddamn frustrating_ the Spartans of Beta Company can be-"

Click. He was now muted and only priority messages would come through now. Let him entertain himself with his damn rambles. She had a building to hack.

After another minute or so, she reached the blinking green light on her HUD. Just above her head was a panel outlined with red paint. Kat reached up, set her metal-sheathed fingers to the gap and gently pulled. The panel groaned in complaint, but she was able to remove it and she pushed her head up into the newly-discovered space.

At first it was nothing but a tangle of old wiring and insulation, with the faint glow of luminescent data chips, but in a corner she found what she was looking for. A small data port set into the wall. Almost unnoticeable, but nothing escaped her eyes. She removed a flash drive from a slot in her armour and inserted it. Almost immediately, data began flashing across her HUD.

There were at least ten power couplings surrounding this building that were powering the lockdown, but she didn't need all the doors open, just the one on the outside. The ones on the inside they would be able to bypass with...different methods. She took a moment to be amused at this: the city's authorities poured their time and dime into making these buildings impregnable, but only from the outside. Internally, they were virtually unchanged. An obvious design flaw that she intended to point out, if only to provide herself with an ego boost.

She accessed schematics and cursed softly in Russian as she saw that the power coupling that needed to be taken down was outside. On the street. Where Thom was standing. There was nothing for it, and she stifled a groan as she engaged her COM and unmated him. "Thom?"

No reply. Just the sound of him breathing.

_Seriously? The silent treatment?_ She tried again. "Thom, come in, this is important. I've found us a way in but I need your help. I repeat, come in."

Still nothing. Kat tried to shove down her building frustration and failed. She was definitely going to speak to Carter about this. "Goddamnit, Thom, are you even listening? I said-"

"Quiet Kat!" She briefly recoiled; not often did she hear that tone in his voice. "I've got movement out here..."

Suddenly there was a loud bark that she realised as the sound of an M90 being fired, and Thom's grunt of surprise. "What the fuck-"She heard him returning fire, and moving fast.

Well, she was damned if she was going to wait in here for Thom to get jumped by some Innie son of a bitch. Kat saved the location of the power coupling to her helmet's storage file and began crawling back out of the duct. Her armour grinded along the walls and ceiling, but she ignored that. If there were people firing at them with shotguns, the element of stealth was gone anyway.

At the end of the duct she saw the grating that they'd replaced after gaining access, and beyond the alleyway, bathed in an orange glow from the streetlights still working. She wriggled towards it, fully intending to punch her way through it. Her teammate needed help, big mouth or no. Kat swung her fist back and sent the grating panel flying across the street. Making to hop out of the duct, she froze as she heard a _shuck-shuck _only a few feet in front of her.

Wrapped inside a thick black trenchcoat, a man edged out from behind a crashed Genet, a sawn-off shotgun clutched in his hands. Kat didn't dare move, but her eyes noted his steady gait, the lack of trembling in his hands, a nervous but collected gaze-this man wasn't a rioter or looter. He was working for the Insurrection. The clothes were a giveaway too.

The man spoke. "Try and get me now, Spartan." He cocked the gun and prepared to fire, but not before speaking aloud. "Redeye, the Spartans are here, I repeat, the Spartans-"

Kat wasn't sure what her plan would have been, but thankfully she didn't have to find out. Before the bastard could pull the trigger, a white blur whizzed by on the left. The man frowned, and touched a hand to the back of his neck. His hand came away red. His frown grew larger, then his face abruptly sagged and he collapsed to the ground. A razor-thin stiletto knife was now visible, lodged in his nape. There was a clatter down the end of the street and Kat turned her head.

Thom sauntered down the debris-littered alleyway, his assault rifle over one shoulder. "Bit of a close call there, Katty, "he chuckled. "So how many times have I saved your ass now?"

Kat glared at him, aware that he wouldn't be able to see it. "My ass is none of your business, Thom." She put hands to the sides of the vent, vaulted out, rolled and landed on her feet. Tugging the knife from the man's corpse, she handed it to Thom. "And don't call me Katty. It's Kat, or lieutenant commander if you've got the time of day. Clear?"

Her teammate threw up his hands in mock surrender. 'Alright, alright, yeesh. Guess I'm putting you down as bad-tempered for the rest of this op." Before she could reply, he gazed around nonchalantly. "So, do we have a way in or not?"

She accessed her HUD records, and found the schematic, the power coupling she'd located a glowing blue dot. "Yes..." It was back on the main street, out in the open. Speaking of which, she turned around and folded her arms. "What happened?"

Thom shrugged. "I dunno, Kat. One minute the street's clear, the next three guys all wearing black and toting shotguns come at me from the shadows. Literally. They'd been lying in wait. Only question is, for us, or just any UNSC grinders? Remember what the commander said." Before they'd split up, Carter had briefed them on Colonel Holland's last-minute message. Innies were aware of their approach. Assume proper readiness. No coincidences.

It didn't matter now though. These ones were dead. Kat faced the street once again. "I remember. He mentioned that we were here in a radio transmission. Innies, you think?"

"Definitely." Thom nudged his victim with an armoured boot. "Check him out. Buzz cut, couple of scars in all the right places. Military training, too-these guys were working in sync. Not opportunists. I managed to get the other two of them pretty quickly, but this guy must've heard you creeping out. Which seems pretty damn lucky, so that would mean-"

"-he was tapping into our COM channels, "Kat finished. "He was communicating with someone just before you wasted him, which means he's probably got some sort of bone mic. Implant. Check his ear."

A quick inspection confirmed the presence of a misshapen lump behind the man's right ear-he was miked up from within. Thom depolarised his helmet and shot Kat a worried look. "I don't like this, LC. These guys are organised. You think they might have stolen UNSC tech, or maybe even Covenant? I mean, no way are some two-bit Innies going to run rings around us-"

"You might be from Alpha, Thom, "Kat said sardonically, "but I've put together more anti-rebel operations than you can count. Trust me, these guys aren't nearly as dumb as they look. They have their own scientists, technicians, engineers. They probably put this together themselves, or is the lowly Insurrection not enough of a threat to merit that?"

It was a carefully selected barb, and she watched as he flushed with indignation. "Well, yeah, "he muttered defensively. "It just seems more likely."

"Maybe." She clicked her COM back on and spoke. "Commander, come in. We have something to report, over."

Almost immediately, Carter's unshakeably confident voice could be heard. "_I hear you, Noble Two. What's the word? You and Thom pushing through Kalec district?"_

"Slowly but surely. We're trying to get into an office block, see if we can't get some elev-spec." _Elev-spec _was squad slang for elevation and inspection, basically getting on top of a large object and performing enhanced reconnaissance. "The streets are jammed, progress is stagnant." She paused, then said in an undertone: "Is this channel secure, sir?"

Carter laughed. _"General Ashton said it was secure, Kat. So feel free to-"_

"Forgive me if I don't fully trust the good general's assurances, sir." She dialled up a few of her own handmade encryption programs, and waited for them to take effect. A green light flashed, and she continued to speak. "We were attacked by Insurrectionists, commander. They were trained and they were looking for us. One of them got off a transmission before Thom eliminated him, sir, to someone codenamed Redeye. Likely a rebel leader of some sort. If they didn't know we were here before, they do now sir."

The commander let out a soft curse. _"Well, it was only a matter of time. It's pretty quiet on our end. Jun and I have linked up with some local marine forces again, we're trying to consolidate the Narupt district before the big push. Seems that command has finally woken up and smelled the coffee, because we've got several companies of ODSTs en route from the carrier _Sisyphus. _These guys have trained for counterterrorism and urban warfare; they'll get the job done. But we're still on mission, clear?"_

"Clear, sir."

_"Good." _There was another pause. _"For now, just proceed with caution. If you pick up anymore Insurrectionist activity, notify me immediately. I'll let Jorge and Emile know about this too. No sense in being unprepared."_

Kat would have loved to interject at this point, to say that Emile would have probably preferred to be unprepared because it meant killing rebels would pose more of a challenge. But the XO had certain things expected of her, not the least of which was professionalism, so she merely said, "Understood, commander. Good hunting. Noble Two out." Click. She turned back to Thom. "He'll let Nobles Four and Five know about our little run-in."

Noble Six let snorted inside his helmet. "Oh man, what was the boss man thinking putting those two together? They're like fire and water. One of 'em would give his life to save civilians, the other'd give _their _lives so he could kill some more bad guys-"

"Stow it, Thom, "she snapped, finger pointing. "One more word out of you and-"

Suddenly Carter was back on the COM. _"Noble Two, we have a priority target in your vicinity."_

Forgetting her threat, she focused. "Listening, sir."

_"We just got a message from General Ashton. One of our intelligence-collecting drones in orbit over the city intercepted a transmission coming from the Piedmont Tower, not far from you. It was mostly gibberish, but we were able to decipher a few words, one of which was Redeye. The rebel leader might be inside, Kat. It's our best lead so far."_

Kat felt the excitement building, that feeling she got when the facts were coming together and so was her plan, already being constructed in the vaults of her mind. "Sounds like it's worth looking into, Noble One. Orders?"

_"A platoon of marines has been diverted to your position, but they'll remain on standby two blocks away. I want you and Thom to infilitrate the building and assess the situation. If the leader's there, capture him. Can't do that, kill him. Try to get at least one of his goons alive if possible. Send the word if, or when, you need backup. Clear enough?"_

Kat grinned fiercely. "Damn right, sir. We'll get it done."

*********************************************************  
**Mission Clock: 1231**

"This is retarded. Seriously."

"Don't say that, Thom. It's offensive to actual retards, which is a demographic I assume you would figure heavily in. Have you tested the jets yet?"

"I'll get round to it. You know how I feel about heights. Takes some getting used to, y'know?"

Kat sighed again.

Having scouted out Piedmont Tower, they'd found bad news and good news. The former had been that the rebels had quite an operation set-up, with armed barricades in all the surrounding streets, and at least twenty men on the ground floor, all disguised as civilians and rogue cops. _Thank god for intel._

Kat had managed to hack into some functioning security cameras on the street to verify the facts Carter had relayed to her. She'd wanted to do the same for those inside the tower itself, but these rebels had proven themselves to be well-prepared. If they had a tech expert of their own, her intrusion attempts would be noticed, and time was too short for her to devise a stealthier way. It would have to do.

Groundside insertion was impossible. They might have been Spartans, but there were simply too many targets. If Jorge had been with them, it might have been possible, but he was busy keeping Emile on a leash. So that left infiltration, from the ground up.

A fly-by courtesy of a recon UAV with thermal imaging had confirmed that there were no hostiles on the roof of the tower, which was unusual. Perhaps the mysterious Redeye, assuming he was in there at all, had bigger things on his mind. In any case, it was their way in. And their new jetpack AA's would play a big role.

Limited fuel and thrust capacity meant that potential "hop-over" sites of a similar height were few and far between. Once again conscious of the time constraints upon them, Kat had made a decision. They had already broken into the building, so...

And now they stood on the building's roof, buffeted by the high winds and seeing half the city laid out before them. It hadn't changed much since their aerial descent: flames and muzzle flashes provided most of the illumination, and many tenements were in ruins. Most of the looting had been done prior to their arrival. Now it was kill-and-rape-for-the-fun-of-it time.

Kat wondered what it was like to be completely defenceless. Even when the Covenant had ravaged her planet, she'd only felt fear and anger. Not helplessness, like any women unfortunate enough to be down there in those streets would be. How could someone go through life unable to fight back, to protect themselves? Kat hoped, no, _prayed _she never found out what that was like. Because behind all of her training and cool-headed focus there was a fear that she'd be utterly defeated at some point, and it would happen without warning-

"Kat! Head in the game!"

Right. It was time to go to work. She walked over to the edge of the roof and faced their target. Piedmont Tower was two hundred and forty six metres away, and specs on the jetpack gauged maximum range at two-fifty. It was going to be close.

Thom was already standing there, hands on hips, surveying his soon-to-be-LZ. "Remind me again, "he said acidly, "why I'm the one going first? And alone?"

"Because, "Kat said tightly, "it limits our chances of being spotted. And I need to tell you when to adjust your trajectory so you don't end up crashing into the side of the tower, or worse, running out of fuel and ending up as a Spartan-shaped splatter on the ground."

"Great. Thanks." He exhaled heavily, and retreated back a few steps. "So, when I get on the roof, I secure the area and set off our diversion. Then you fly on over and we head downstairs, and we either nab this guy or blow him to kingdom come. Am I wrong?"

"No, you've got it covered." She depolarised her own Air Assault-issue helmet and gave him a small smile for reassurance. Every little helped. "You might just make it in this business after all, Thom."

He huffed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. _Stupid Beta chicks..." _he mumbled.

"I heard that!" she called out, and then consulted the readout in her helmet. She'd linked a transistor to his jetpack, which gave would let her monitor the device's fuel and thrust levels. In order to minimise the chances of failure (_a light way of putting it, Kat_), she'd told him to take a running jump. Only this time, literally.

"On my mark. Three...two...one..." And at that point she recited the same thought she did every time an op was about to commence.

_Please, let this work._

"Mark!" __

Thom hurtled towards the edge and flung himself off, arms and legs spreadeagled. He dropped from view, only to come back into view almost immediately. A pair of orange jets flared from the cones on his jetpack, and he flew off towards the tower. Soon he was just a lonely blot in the sky. It had begun.

She began to pace along the rooftop, opening a COM channel. "Thom! Sitrep!"

His voice came through. He sounded calm, but Kat knew he was focusing hard on keeping it together. He'd never been good with heights, to say nothing of zero-gee missions. _"Going just fine, Katty. How's my pack? Your stats syncing up with mine?"_

"I told you not to-yes, you're fine. Altitude and trajectory are green. Fuel level's dropping fast though. See anything useful up there?"

_"Not a lot. Just rebels walking around...standing still. Not very exciting guys, the men of the Insurrection. Do you think they get paid overtime?"_

"Focus, Thom! You should almost be there." Had it only been twenty seconds or so?

_"Yeah, I can see my LZ. Shit, this tower's big...OK Kat, my jetpack readout's flashing like a neon sign. Something I should know?"_

She checked. His thrusters were starting to overheat due to extended use, and soon they would shut off completely so the entire apparatus wouldn't just catch flame. "Your thrusters are nearly depleted, get to that roof! Now!"

_Alright, alright! Aw shit-"_

Kat heard a sudden _whoosh_ over the COM, and felt her heart rate spike, which was instantly countered by the chemicals being pumped through her armour's medical ports. "Thom? Thom! Goddamnit, Noble Six, come in!"

A burst of static, and an annoyed grunt. _"Don't have to shout, LC. I can hear you just fine."_

"What happened?"

_"Damn thrusters cut off almost as soon as I made it to the lip of the roof, but I didn't quite make it...luckily there was a big central heating unit just below. Gave me some time to climb back up, I'm here now."_

She was about to exhale in relief, and quickly forced it back. They weren't done. Not even close. She faced the roof's edge again, her own jetpack's thrusters warming up. "Roger that. I'm on my way over. Secure the area in the meantime."

_"Ten-four, Kat. I'll make this place cleaner than a midwife's clinic, an ODST's hope chest, an Elite's combat harness; hey, I've got more-"_

And they said _Jun _was chatty.

She counted to three, inhaled sharply and sprinted towards the roof. She leapt, and let oblivion take her. But only for a moment. Thrusters belched into life and she was airborne, heading for the rooftop. The jetstream tugged at her armour like the hands of needy children. Privately, she thanked her helmet was insulating her ears from the wind.

Kat clicked on her COM, but kept one eye on her jetpack's readout. "Thom, I'm inbound. You secured that rooftop-"

Without warning an almighty explosion erupted from the streets below, followed by the faint clacks of gunfire. Gouts of flame and debris shot up towards her, barely missing. "Shit! What the hell's going on down there, Thom?"

Her teammate's voice came through, now accompanied by a layer of tension. "_Hell if I can say for sure, LC, but the rebels are going into a frenzy, taking up positions, forming up into squads...my guess? I think that platoon Carter was planning to send us just got found. That, or they got cocky and decided to try their hand at being heroes. That explosion happened only a few blocks away from here."_

"Fuck, "she cursed. This was the last thing they needed. She'd planned for a stealth operation, and that was no longer possible. Unless... "Are the Innies activating any missile systems, AA batteries? Anything?"

_"One sec-Yep, I can see a pair of SAM launchers, one on either side of the front lawn. Doesn't look like they're on now, but they're trying their damndest. Kat, get here quick before they lock onto your armour's systems! I'll try and contact the marines-"_

"Don't do that!" she commanded sharply. "They might have ears listening in. Just stick to the SQUADCOM for now. I'll be there ASAP, clear?"

"_Solid copy."_ They both cut the channel. It was too risky to spend any more time on the airwaves. For her part, Kat ignored the clusterfuck going on in the streets below and focused on getting to that damn rooftop. Before a heatseeker decided to end her career prematurely.

Fortunately, the rest of her flight was uneventful, and fifteen seconds later she touched down on the Piedmont Tower roof with just enough fuel left. Normally she would have been smug that she'd made it without screwing up and Thom hadn't, but now wasn't the time. Her errant teammate was busy gazing at the rebels below, arms folded. "Well?" she asked, striding up to him.

He shook his head in despair. "Never send marines to do a Spartan's job. I managed to knock the dust off the optical zoom and I confirmed it. Leathernecks of the 126th. Somewhere between twenty and thirty, but there might be more. Rebels must've had an explosive trap wired into the traffic signal system, set to trigger when they set foot on the road. Wouldn't work unless the superintendent was gone, either." He shook his head again, this time in grudging admiration. "I'm really starting to hate these guys."

"Me too." She looked around, and saw only one thing of note: the top of the stairwell leading down into the building. "We can't afford to wait any longer, Thom. If they're mobilising, you can bet they'll be securing their stronghold too. There's probably a team headed up here right now. We need to move." She drew her M6G sidearm and racked the slide with a practised movement. "Weapon out, rifleman. Time to knock some heads."

He flashed her a mocking grin. "Kat, I keep telling you, that stuff was cool when you were in Beta, but not anymore. Knock some heads? I mean, really-"

She shoved him towards the stairwell and together they silently descended, now completely focused on their mission. Redeye was in here somewhere, and if he wasn't going with them, he wasn't going at all.

*****************************************************

"Cover fire!"

"Someone get a grenade on that MG!"

"Fucking Innie assholes-"

"Sniper! Anyone see the shooter?"

"Get down, idiot!"

Who said marines couldn't be eloquent?

Gunny Reynolds might have been crouching behind a wrecked van, eyes trained firmly on his ammo counter (32) and waiting for the fire to slack off so he could pop up and shoot, but inside his marine-issue helmet-clad head there was only one thing: _you fucked up. You fucked up. You fucked up, didn't you? You fucked up._

The man next to him, a beefy corporal by the name of Gehrig (he liked old-Earth jazz music and had three brothers also in the Corps), blind-fired a grenade from behind a concrete barrier, and Reynolds took this chance to act. He ducked out from behind his vehicular barrier and fired a short burst. Somewhere across the street they'd been pinned down on, across to the next block, a loud yell was heard. At least he thought it was from over there. It was all around him too.

_You fucked up._

He ducked back down as a stream of bullets from presumably stolen guns pinged and volleyed off anything in their path. Including one or two of his men, who went down bleeding and screaming. Tyrell and Bendis. Family men both, veterans of the 126th. Bendis had just returned from medical leave. Plasma scarring on his ribs. From the look of that wound, he'd be going straight back.

_You fucked up, yeah?_

One of his staff sergeants was shaking his arm, yelling something. Something about their marksman finding a building's stairwell that wasn't locked down. They could get on the roof. Fight back, instead of getting chewed to bits on the street. He tried to find his voice, but the sound of the combat and that voice in his head denied any possibility of this. He grunted, nodded vehemently. Waved a hand. _Go, go. Do it. You still fucked up. Remember?_

It was never usually this bad. But usually for him was the Covenant. Fighting against an enemy that had a perpetual upper hand. In that arena, mistakes didn't mean death was any less likely (the goddamn opposite), but they were more...forgivable. Didn't mean he wouldn't fight less, or that his men wouldn't pay the price. But it sealed the roles of protagonist and antagonist. He was only human, and they were unknowable aliens.

Now, getting outsmarted and outfought by the goddamned Insurrection? On this planet, a planet that had every right to be stable? There was no getting around that. No justification, however slight, that he could repeat a thousand times over (and a thousand times after that) until he believed it. They were humans as well. Sneaky pricks, but human. They died easily enough, and to prove this he ripped a frag from his vest and lobbed it so it would bounce off the walls of the building opposite. Boom. Chunks of flesh and viscera stained the pavement.

_You still fucked up._

Did it think he didn't know that? Christ, it happened to everyone. He'd move on, get back on his feet. He was in charge of these men, ever since the el-tee bit the dust 'cause of that mine. He'd see them through-

_Or you won't. Because you'll fuck up again._

"Gunny? Gunny!"

It was another one of his subordinates, Schmidt. His family was old money but he'd signed up to fight instead of living the limousine-and-cocktails life. A good kid. He finally found his voice, his own voice. "What's the spit, private?"

The tips of his blonde hair were poking out from under his helmet; past regulation length. He made a note to see to that-

"-bombing run, sir!"

He blinked once, twice. Wait, what? He cupped his ear, telling himself he couldn't hear because of the sound of gunfire and grenades. "Repeat that, son!"

If Schmidt was frustrated, he didn't show it, just doubled his voice to a yell. "Sir, Corporal Kenneth just got in touch with Ashton! He says he can divert one of our UAV's to this position to commence a bombing run but he needs two things first!"

Two? He wasn't asking much, was he? "What?!"

"The street's too narrow for UAV control to target manually, he needs the target to be lased! Which is pretty much any point where the rebs are entrenched!"

"Ok, good!" He tried to raise his voice and succeeded. He immediately felt stronger. "Do we _have_ a target locator?"

"It's being brought up by 'Goose from Pardindo Street, special delivery! Five minutes tops!"

"Good!" Good? He was already sick of the word, hated it. Nothing about this was good. "And the other thing?"

"There are only eleven UAVs operating inside the city limits, so the general doesn't want them destroyed! The Innies have a couple of SAM launchers up near Piedmont Tower, we need to take 'em out!"

_Oh, is that all?_ He pushed himself off the van's roof, now perpendicular to the ground, and yelled into Schmidt's ear. "Get all the staff sergeants here now! Then let me know when the locator gets here! Got it?"

"Yes sir!" Schmidt practically screamed. He hared off back along their makeshift barricade, head on a swivel as he looked for whoever was left to that could make decisions.

_You fucked up. You probably will again._

He thought he'd banished that voice. Never for long.

****************************************************

Kat proceeded cautiously down the marble-tiled corridor, a long electronic wand held aloft in her hand. The tip glowed a pale blue, but not bright enough that it shone off the walls or floor. After a painstakingly slow minute, she reached the end and gazed at the wand expectantly. It remained the same colour. No bugs or other surveillance equipment, then. Good.

She let her hand fall below her hip and made a beckoning gesture. Thom quickly moved up the corridor, rifle butt firmly against his shoulder. If a target popped out, he wouldn't miss, she was sure of that. "That makes our third floor doing this, LC, "he breathed softly. "We're going too slow. Think we could hurry it up?"

"Sure. If you want every Innie in the building to come at us."

"Point taken."

She consulted the Piedmont schematic. It was roughly sixty stories high, but the lower half was comprised of offices, cubicles and small firms. The upper half was strictly corporate, hence the more opulent surroundings. Barring the odd scorch mark and smashed window of course. The rebs must've done a clean job when they took this place.

They still had no idea where Redeye was located, but it couldn't be far away. But unfortunately Thom had a point. They _were_ going too slow. They'd need a new plan. Reluctantly, she turned to her squadmate. 'So, got any ideas?"

He grinned mischievously. "I might have one or two. Actually, just one." He walked back the way they'd came, pointing a finger at a small camera lens nestled in a corner of the ceiling. "You fed them a loop, right? Because disabling them would be too suspicious?"

Kat frowned, not seeing where he was going. "Right."

"And _they_ disabled the elevators, right?"  
"Right. What's your point?"

"My point-"he positioned himself just behind the camera's visual range, and gestured for Kat to do the same-"is this. Unloop the camera on my mark."

She was now more confused than ever, but she found herself without an option and (grudgingly) trusting his judgement. "Alright. Standby." She accessed her HUD's hacking software and found the relevant designation for the camera. "Whenever you're ready."

Hearing a click, she saw him take out a frag grenade and pull the pin. "Mark!"

He tossed the grenade down the corridor, then took cover behind a large potted plant. Kat barely had time to swear in Russian before the grenade went off, filling the small space with white light tinged with red and orange streaks. Splinters of wood and marble bounced and pattered on her armour, causing her to instinctively raise her arm in front of her face. Her visor hadn't quite polarised in time, so that meant her vision was covered with yellow spots.__

Just in time, she remembered to resume the loop over the camera feed. Once she had done that, she whirled on Thom and damn near slammed him against the wall. "What the _fuck_ was that?" she yelled, a string of saliva splattering on the inside of her helmet. She ignored it. "You could have gotten us both killed! Besides, what good does that do?"

Thom spoke calmly and concisely, the sort of voice he never used because he was never the one coming up with plans. Kat was momentarily impressed at this before going back to being pissed off. "Think about it, Kat. All they would have seen on their screens is an explosion on the fifty-eighth floor. They don't know that it's us. They don't know _what_ it is. But they won't leave it to chance, so they'll send a team up here. On the elevator. So when they do-"

"We'll be ready for them, "Kat finished. She still looked at him with anger, but there was a trace of respect now. "Not a bad plan. Just consult me next time you go tossing an M9, ok?"

He nodded solemnly and saluted. "Understood, ma'am." He kept walking down the now-destroyed corridor, but said over his shoulder, "Oh, and LC? You might wanna wipe your visor."

She resisted the urge to fire a round over his head and followed him to where the elevators would be. They had a trap to spring.

***************************************************

They gathered around a flipped-over convertible. Who was left, anyway.  
Five staff sergeants looked at him expectantly, all of them wounded. One had a nasty gash over one eye, which wouldn't stop seeping blood. Every twenty seconds or so, the man wiped it away with a muttered curse. There was a sort of grace to that rhythm, and some insane part of Reynolds wanted to just close his eyes and listen to it. _Fsssht. Shit. Fsssht. Fuck. Fsssht. Damn._

_Focus, damn it._

Five sergeants, looking at him, were expecting him to get them out of this mess. They were chancing a lot. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and he set aside his helmet for the moment.

He raised his voice so that he would be heard. Though they were now a decent hundred or so metres back down the street-his former position on the line had gotten too hot, causing Schmidt to pay with his life-the cacophony of gunfire and shouting still made it hard. "First things first. Casualties?"

A quick discussion revealed that they'd lost twelve men already, mostly from Second Squad. They'd been the poor bastards unlucky enough to be on point when the mine went off and the initial hail of gunfire began. They would try to recover what was left of the bodies, but if they didn't do something to stop this fight soon, someone would be performing burial detail for them.

"Ashton can send us a bombing run, clear out the street, but he needs two things. One, targets need to be marked with a laser. That one's taken care of." He held up a small handheld device that looked like an M6D with a large cylinder in place of the barrel. "Two, he needs the Innie AA cannons taken out of the picture. Two is harder. They're well fortified, and well entrenched. Any ideas?"

A snort was heard, and one of the men there, a gangly specimen named Temple folded his arms. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought we weren't even meant to be in this deep? I thought we were supposed to provide fire support when the Spartans started kicking ass, not getting our asses left to die-"

"Stand down, sergeant!" Reynolds barked, feeling his headache getting worse. "We're in it now whether you like it or not, so if you haven't got anything worthwhile to contribute, shut your cakehole!"

Temple nodded crisply. Thank god, the idiot still knew how to take orders. Reynolds cast his gaze around. "Nothing?"

Another non-com, a dark-skinned man called Fanucci, raised a hand. "Why don't we try going under? Smoke those pussies out from the sewers or whatever. We've got C-12 satchels on standby, it's just a matter of setting up. Sounds good, right?"

"And who's t'say them sumbitches ain't got the tunnels wired up t'blow fulla bombs themselves?" argued Staff Sergeant Reichart. "Ah say, we get some workin' cars and 'Hogs, load 'em up with 'splosives, put the pedal t'the metal. Boom!" He emphasised this by slamming his fists together enthusiastically.

Reynolds thought about it. Both plans seemed equally suicidal and reckless. But they were the only two plans he had. So which one would he take?

Almost imperceptibly, he recalled a line from his old drill instructor. He'd just made corporal and been put in charge of a fireteam. He didn't think it was such a big responsibility, but his superior had thought otherwise. He and every other jarhead dumb enough to get rank had been grilled for days about a hundred different kinds of tactics and strategies. Most of them dealt with what to do in the event everything went to shit. Which, the drill instructor had argued, was pretty damn often.

_"And why am I telling you this? Because just between you and me, those officers and soon-to-be-officers at OCS are wastes of space, every last one of 'em." A ripple of laughter had gone around the room. "Yeah, laugh. But it's a damn fact that when officers buy the farm, the platoon, company, whatever, goes one of two ways. The first is that the chain of command breaks down, nobody knows what the flying fuck to do and you all die horribly. But, if you're lucky, and you _apply yourselves_ then you'll get option two. One of you non-coms picks up the slack, you work together and you come out the other side alive. That's why this is so goddamned important, boys and girls._

Because at the end of the day, we're all dead men, and whatever call you make, people will die. Just make sure it's the right one. Make sure it gets results. Make sure it gets you closer to getting back safe."

Now, as a gunnery sergeant, those words felt heavier than a missile pod. He had to get his men out alive. But that meant taking a more dangerous road...

He shook his head, re-donned his helmet and stood up. "I've decided."

__

****

****


End file.
